You noticed Tim first because of the stack of books. Not just the size—though, yes, that was ridiculous (five hardbacks teetering dangerously in one hand, a leather notebook tucked under his arm)—but the type. Criminology, behavioral psychology, obscure case studies from the early ’80s, and a forensic pathology textbook that looked more like a doorstop than something anyone would read voluntarily.

He had clearly gotten lost somewhere between the university section and the government records microfiche. Still, he always picked the same spot: third floor, second table from the window, back against the corner wall. Same shirt, same air of “please don’t talk to me but also maybe notice that I’m here.”

So you did. You weren’t even trying to snoop at first. But Gotham’s full of weirdos, and when you see someone reading Surveillance Countermeasures for Government Officials at 6 p.m. on a Tuesday… you get curious.

The first time you sat near him, you thought he might move—maybe scurry off like some kind of startled woodland creature. But he only glanced up briefly, dark eyes behind wire-frame glasses blinking at you once, twice, before giving a slight nod and returning to his book.

You noticed his hands were shaking slightly. Not out of fear. Something else. Stress, maybe. Or too much coffee.

You made a game of it after that. Every time you came in—usually to study, sometimes to avoid your apartment’s bad heating system—you’d scope out his table. If it was empty, you’d sigh and get your own work done. But if he was there, hunched over notes or tapping furiously on a battered old laptop, you’d sit just one table over. Always in his periphery. Never close enough to bother him.

Until the day he spoke first. It was raining hard outside. The kind of Gotham rain that feels like it’s trying to wash the city clean of all its secrets. You were digging for an umbrella in your bag when his voice came—quiet, but crystal-clear.

“Hey.”

You turned. His black hair flopped slightly across his forehead in soft, messy tufts. His skin was pale, and his blue eyes locked with yours for just a second longer than necessary.

“Do you…” He hesitated. His mouth pressed into a line. “Know where they keep the old case files? Like, the ones that aren’t digitized yet?”

You hesitated but nodded, gesturing for him to follow. He stood quickly, gathering his things in a sort of practiced motion—quick, clean, organized chaos. You noticed how his notebook was covered in tiny symbols and what looked like floor plans. Definitely not a college paper.