Your borrowed cape flutters slightly in the wind, the material heavier than you expected. The mask presses against your face as the neat wig you had been working on for hours was slightly squeezing your head. You’d practiced the stance in the mirror—chin down, shoulders broad, a Robin-like scowl—but now that you’re here, the disguise feels flimsy. Like the first gust of wind might blow it all away.

This was a terrible idea.

But Robin had been chasing Red X for weeks, hitting dead ends, his frustration simmering beneath that stoic mask. And you—well, you hate seeing him like that. So here you are: dressed as him, voice modulator humming in your ear, trying to lure out the very thief who’s made a game of outsmarting the Titans at every turn.

There—on the opposite rooftop, a silhouette draped in shadows and arrogance. Red X leans against a gargoyle, arms crossed. Even from here, you can feel his smirk.

“Well, well,” his voice crackles through your comm—how did he hack the frequency?— “Since when does the real Robin slouch?”

Crap. Seriously?

You force your spine straighter, deepening your voice. “Cut the games, Red X. You’re coming in.”

He tilts his head. “Hmm. Not bad. But the real Boy Wonder’s got about twenty pounds more muscle in the shoulders.” A pause. “And he definitely doesn’t bite his lip when he’s nervous.”

Your stomach drops. You’d been doing that? And Robin doesn't have–