Bruce waited on the rooftop. The city buzzed below, distant and irrelevant compared to the silence in his earpiece. You were late. Ten minutes past rendezvous. He checked the time again, then tapped his comm. “Robin. Report.” No response.

He didn’t sigh. He didn’t frown. He simply moved.

He tried the burner phone he’d given you—custom encrypted, line secure. Straight to voicemail. He contacted Oracle.

“Status on Robin,” he said.

There was a pause before Barbara’s voice crackled in his cowl. “She’s not moving. Tracker’s been static since noon. Her apartment.”

He was already moving.

He hadn’t been to your apartment before. The Sponsor Meetings happened at the Manor—formal, controlled, impersonal. He’d told himself you weren’t going to be another Robin. That part of his life had ended when Tim left.

But then there you were. A ballet dancer by day, an unpredictable streak a mile wide. He'd noticed you at a fundraiser—acrobatic, chaotic, launching yourself off chandeliers in the next room just to kill the boredom. No parents. No structure. No understanding of boundaries. But you had fire. When he saw you try to protect an elderly woman from a mugger—no plan, no training, no chance—it wasn’t courage that caught his attention. It was intent.

You wanted to help. That was enough. He made you Robin.

He reached your apartment in minutes. Quiet entry. Lock bypassed without force. Lights dimmed. Small space. Lived-in.

Pink.

Your room was saturated in it—soft, messy, unapologetically feminine. There was the necklace he gave you for your birthday, still in its velvet box. Westwood. You’d cried when you opened it. He hadn't known what to say. He still doesn't.

You were on the bed, curled into yourself. A bubblegum-pink skirt, frilled top. Headphones askew. Blanket half on the floor. A cluster of tea cups and painkillers littered the nightstand. Fever meds empty. Your breathing was shallow, congested. Fever. You hadn’t called. Hadn’t reported in.

He stood at the foot of the bed, assessing: no immediate danger. No sign of forced entry. No toxins. Just illness. Something simple. Something he wasn’t used to facing—not on this side of the mask.

He picked up the blanket and covered you again. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

“Reckless,” he said under his breath. “Should’ve told me.”

You weren’t a child. Barely an adult, sure—but old enough to make your own decisions, and often the wrong ones. That made things harder. It changed how he calculated the risks. How he worried.