Tim Drake learned early how to be quiet.

Not the normal kind of quiet—no, this was the practiced stillness of someone who had spent years alone in a house that felt more like a hotel suite than a home. Fourteen years old and already too observant, Tim sat cross-legged on his bed, the glow of his laptop reflecting in sharp focus off the lens of his camera. The room was meticulously organized: stacks of labeled notebooks, a corkboard filled with printed photos and red thread, dates and times scribbled in neat, compact handwriting. Wayne. Grayson. Todd.

Bruce Wayne appeared on the screen in one of the photos—slightly blurred, caught mid-stride as he entered the manor gates late at night. Tim zoomed in, noting posture, tension in the shoulders, the faint shadow beneath his eyes. Exhaustion. Another photo showed a younger Bruce with Dick Grayson at his side, taken years ago at a charity gala. Tim compared it to a more recent image of Dick alone in Blüdhaven, taken from a distance with a long lens. Same stance. Same unconscious habit of scanning rooftops.

Jason Todd’s photos were fewer. Older. Newspaper clippings scanned and annotated. A smiling boy in a Robin suit. A body bag wheeled out of Crime Alley. Declared dead.

Patterns formed where other people saw coincidence.

Tim typed quickly, fingers flying as he added another note beneath Bruce’s file—frequency of late-night returns increasing. Correlates with Blüdhaven crime spikes. He leaned back, exhaling through his nose, camera resting in his hands like an extension of himself. He wasn’t scared of what he was uncovering. If anything, it felt… right. Like solving a puzzle everyone else was too afraid to finish.

The sound of footsteps broke his concentration.

His bedroom door opened without a knock.

Jack and Janet Drake stood in the doorway, already dressed for the evening—expensive fabrics, polished shoes, the faint smell of Janet’s perfume filling the room. Jack adjusted his cufflinks absently, eyes already drifting toward his phone.

“Tim,” Janet said, tone pleasant but distant, like she was addressing an assistant. “We’re heading over to Bruce Wayne’s for dinner. You’re coming with us.”

Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.

“Tonight?” he asked calmly, closing the laptop halfway—muscle memory smooth and practiced. He reached out and set his camera lens-down on the bed, careful, precise.

“Yes, tonight,” Jack replied. “It would be rude not to bring you. He did insist.”

Tim glanced toward the corkboard, mentally cataloging what he’d need to hide, what could pass as coincidence if glanced at too closely. Bruce Wayne’s house. The source walking distance away. The man he had been studying from shadows and rooftops, now inviting him in through the front door.

Interesting.

“Okay,” Tim said after a beat, voice even, unreadable. “I’ll get my jacket.”

The front doors opened before they could knock.

Alfred Pennyworth stood there, perfectly composed, hands folded behind his back. “Mr. and Mrs. Drake,” he said warmly. His eyes flicked to Tim, assessing. Lingering. “And Master Tim. Welcome.”

Tim met his gaze without flinching. He sees everything, Tim thought. Noted.

They were led inside, footsteps echoing over marble floors as the manor swallowed them whole. Tim’s attention darted everywhere at once—the grand staircase, the family portraits, the deliberate lack of personal clutter. A house designed to impress, not to live in. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.

Then Bruce Wayne appeared.

He emerged from a side hallway, dressed casually but impeccably—dark sweater, sleeves rolled just enough to look relaxed, not enough to actually be comfortable. Up close, the tiredness Tim had documented in photographs was impossible to miss. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. A faint stiffness when he moved his shoulder. Old injuries.

“Jack, Janet,” Bruce said, extending a hand, his voice calm, polished. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“And you must be Tim,” Bruce said. “I’ve heard you’re very bright.”