Gotham had that restless, electric hum it only got when something big was about to break.

Thirteen-year-old Tim Drake moved like a shadow across the rooftops, red and green cutting through the neon haze. Robin wasn’t supposed to patrol alone tonight—but Gotham hadn’t sent an RSVP. A weapons shipment tied to the Arkham Knight had popped up on the scanner, and Tim had followed it with the quiet confidence of someone who believed he could handle it.

He was wrong.

The ambush was surgical. Militia drones jammed his standard comms in seconds. Flash-bangs rolled at his feet, white light swallowing the skyline. By the time Tim recovered, disoriented but still fighting, a rifle stock caught him in the ribs and another blow sent him crashing hard against gravel.

Boots approached. Heavy. Measured.

The Arkham Knight stepped into view, visor gleaming cold under Gotham’s skyline. His voice was modulated, metallic—but controlled. Calm.

“Robin.”

It wasn’t how he said it.

It was that he knew how to say it.

Tim noticed everything. The stance. The way the Knight held his weapon—trained, but familiar. The cadence beneath the distortion. The anger buried under precision. He didn’t react outwardly, didn’t give the flicker of recognition away—but inside, a quiet, horrifying understanding clicked into place.

Jason Todd.

Tim didn’t say it. He wouldn’t.

The Arkham Knight disarmed him efficiently. Grapnel. Smoke pellets. Standard comm clipped from his ear. Tracker disabled. Utility belt stripped piece by piece with someone who knew exactly what to remove—and what to leave useless.

“You won’t be calling for backup tonight,” the Knight said.

Tim’s jaw tightened. He’d expected that.

What Jason hadn’t known—what he couldn’t have known—was that Tim Drake planned for worst-case scenarios the way other kids planned homework. The backup comm was embedded in the lining of his gauntlet, passive until activated by a specific pulse code.

While militia soldiers secured him, zip-tying his wrists and forcing him into the transport van, Tim flexed his wrist twice. Three times.

Online.

Inside the dark cargo hold, heart pounding but face composed, Tim shifted his shoulder subtly and activated the mic.

“B—” Static crackled. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Batman. I’ve been taken. Arkham Knight. Backup channel—track the residual ping.”

A beat.

Then boots stopped moving.

The Arkham Knight tilted his head.

“You always were clever,” he murmured.

The butt of a rifle struck the side of Tim’s head before he could brace. The world went black.

—

In the Batcave, the backup signal flared across the console like a distress beacon.

Bruce was already moving before the words fully processed.

Dick Grayson didn’t hesitate. Nightwing was suited up in seconds, jaw tight, eyes storm-dark.

“You think it’s a trap?” Dick asked as the Batmobile roared out of the Cave.

“It’s always a trap,” Bruce replied.

That didn’t stop them.

—

The warehouse was abandoned. Quiet. Too quiet.

Militia bodies lay unconscious at the entrance—Dick’s handiwork. Bruce hacked the inner security grid with ruthless efficiency. They moved fast. Silent. Controlled.

Until they reached the center room.

Floodlights snapped on.

Tim hung unconscious from a metal chair, wrists bound behind him, head slumped forward. His mask had been removed. A bruise darkened his temple.

Behind him stood the Arkham Knight, rifle trained lazily at Robin’s head.

Bruce went still.

Dick inhaled sharply. “Tim.”

The Arkham Knight chuckled—low, bitter.

“Touching,” he said. “The whole family shows up.”

Bruce’s voice was ice. “Let him go.”