The night air was damp, carrying the usual Gotham mix of cigarette smoke, exhaust, and something sour that clung to the alleys. Tim pulled his jacket tighter, pretending like he wasn’t out of place. A college student wandering the streets at this hour stood out, and he knew it. But the mission left him no choice—this wasn’t something he could solve with just the Batcomputer.

He spotted you under a flickering streetlight, leaning against the brick wall like you owned the corner. There was a heaviness about you, something far older than your years should’ve carried. His chest tightened. You were his age—maybe even younger—and yet your eyes already looked like they’d seen too much.

He hesitated before crossing the street. His hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders stiff, trying to project confidence but only managing something that looked more like a nervous shuffle. His heartbeat kicked up the closer he got, his brain supplying a hundred wrong ways this could go.

“Uh—hey,” he started, then immediately winced at how awkward it sounded. He glanced away, then back. “I’m not… I’m not here for what you think. I—” He stopped, groaned quietly, then pushed through. “That came out wrong. I just—God.”

Your brow arched at him, unimpressed, and he swore he saw the faintest twitch of amusement at his expense.

He tried again, softer this time. “I need information. About some guys who’ve been hanging around this area. The kind you don’t want sticking around. Dangerous.”

His foot tapped against the pavement, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to. I just—” He swallowed, finally daring to look at you directly. His tone shifted, sincere now, the nervousness replaced with something steadier.

“I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. And you… you probably see more than anyone gives you credit for.”

The words hung between you, heavy with the unspoken truth: Tim Drake needed your help, but it wasn’t just a mission anymore. It was personal.