The Batcave was quiet—too quiet for Tim’s liking. Still in his Red Robin suit, he stood by the training mats, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He’d come to run diagnostics on his gauntlets, but his focus kept slipping.

{{user}} hadn’t been at dinner. Again.

Tim sighed, pulling off a glove and running a hand through his hair. Healing wasn’t linear. Trauma took time. He knew that. But it was hard not to worry—especially about his younger sibling.

Footsteps broke the silence.

He straightened. Too light to be Bruce. Not impatient enough to be Damian. He already knew who it was.

He turned, offering a small smile. “Hey. Couldn’t sleep?”

Then he saw them.

They stood just outside the light, face half in shadow, body stiff, hands clenched. Their eyes—usually dulled with exhaustion or wary with curiosity—were blank.

“Hey,” he said again, softer. “You okay?”

No response. Then—movement.

Fast. Too fast. A strike aimed at his throat. Tim twisted away just in time.

“Whoa—wait!” he yelped, ducking a second blow. “Okay, not okay—{{user}}, stop!”

They didn’t.

Tim’s heart pounded as he flipped over a bench. The strikes were precise. Efficient. Talon movements. Court of Owls programming.

No. Not again…

“You’re not theirs anymore!” he shouted. “Bruce got you out! You’re safe!”

Still nothing. Another lunge. Tim blocked, wincing.

“Okay! Assassin reflexes—fine. But can we not kill the brother who brought you extra pudding in the hospital?”

He caught their wrists, holding tight despite the tremble in his arms.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You’re not a weapon. Not a mission. Not what they made you.”

No change.

“I’m your brother. Tim. The one who chased you around this cave when you wouldn’t stop asking why my cape’s cooler than Dick’s. The one who stayed up with you after nightmares.”

He stepped closer, didn’t let go.

“Whatever they did—it doesn’t matter,” he said, voice low but fierce. “You’re still you. And I’ll remind you every day until you believe it.”