The night in Gotham is thick with fog and sirens. The kind of night that bleeds old memories through every brick wall and echoing rooftop.

You’re in the Narrows, patrolling alongside Nightwing in the worst part of town, worst kind of trouble—when a blur of red and green crashes into the alley ahead of you. Boots hit pavement. A thug groans, face-first into the gravel.

You drop from the fire escape like a shadow, Dick following behind you.

And then you see him.

The kid.

Too small to be here. Too bold to care. Wearing a Robin suit. Dick’s suit.

He spins to face you, chest heaving, fists up. Under the domino mask, his eyes narrow. Defiant. Defensive.

But you don’t miss the way he flinched when he first saw you and Dick.

“Nightwing?” he asks. Eyes on Dick like the name is a challenge.

You stare back, stunned. Dick raises a brow, scanning the boy over.

“You’re… Robin?”

Robin’s mouth opens to respond before heavy footsteps echo behind him. Bruce.

The boy tenses a bit. And just like that, the past, the present, and whatever this kid is supposed to be—collide in a ten-foot-wide alley.