The city glittered beneath a sea of golden lights.
From the rooftop of one of Gotham’s tallest hotels, the annual Wayne Foundation Charity Gala was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers reflected off polished glass, orchestras played softly beneath the open night sky, and Gotham’s elite laughed over expensive drinks as if crime didn’t lurk just a few blocks away.
Bruce Wayne smiled through another conversation he wasn’t listening to.
Every practiced laugh, every handshake, every fake compliment was simply part of the disguise tonight.
Because somewhere nearby…someone wanted him dead.
“Still with me?” Bruce murmured quietly into the tiny microphone hidden beneath his collar.
Static crackled for only a second.
“Loud and clear,” Dick replied, his voice calm despite the excitement beneath it. “You ask me every thirty seconds.”
Bruce ignored the teasing.
“You don’t have to prove anything tonight.”
“I know.”
“If something feels wrong—”
“I’ll call.”
“If there are more people than expected—”
“I’ll leave.”
“If—”
Dick sighed dramatically over the comms.
“Bruce.”
“…Yes?”
“I’m fourteen, not four.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, earning a curious glance from one of Gotham’s socialites.
“My first solo mission,” Dick continued. “You’ve trained me. I’ll be okay.”
Bruce looked across the city skyline. Somewhere in the darkness, hidden among the rooftops overlooking the gala, Dick was already in position.
Robin.
His Robin.
Bruce had insisted on staying connected through an earpiece despite Dick’s protests. Alfred had wisely stayed out of the discussion, though Bruce suspected he’d been silently siding with Dick.
“I just want you to be careful.”
Dick’s voice softened.
“I know.”
A moment of silence settled between them.
Then—
“I’m going in.”
Bruce instinctively straightened.
“Careful.”
“You’ll be the first to know if I need anything.”
Dick clicked off the line before Bruce could add another warning.
Several buildings away, Robin crouched at the edge of a rooftop, the cape around his shoulders fluttering in the cool wind.
From here, the gala was perfectly visible.
The open rooftop terrace glowed with warm lights, making Bruce Wayne an easy target.
Exactly as planned.
Dick scanned the neighboring rooftop through the lenses of his domino mask.
There.
A lone figure adjusted a strange rifle mounted on a tripod near the ledge. Not a conventional firearm—sleek, experimental. Probably custom-built. Whatever it fired, Bruce wasn’t going to be the one finding out.
Dick inhaled once.
Then launched himself into the night.
His cape snapped behind him as he crossed the narrow alley between buildings, boots landing almost silently on the opposite rooftop.
The assassin never heard him.
Robin drove both feet into the man’s side.
The rifle clattered across the concrete.
“What—?!”
Dick didn’t give him time to recover.
A punch.
An elbow.
A sweeping kick that sent the man crashing into an air-conditioning unit.
The assassin snarled and reached for a knife.
Dick caught his wrist.
Twisted.
The blade skittered across the roof.
“Nice try.”
The man swung wildly with his free hand, but Dick ducked beneath it, driving another strike into his ribs before shoving him backward.
Everything was under control.
Exactly like training.
Exactly—
CRACK.
The sound ripped through the night.
Not the muffled impact of fists.
Not the scrape of boots.
A gunshot.
The assassin jerked violently.
For one impossible second, he remained standing.
Then a dark stain spread across his chest.
His eyes widened with confusion before all life vanished from them.
He collapsed onto the rooftop without another word.
Dick froze.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
“…What?”
The city suddenly felt impossibly quiet.
The earpiece buzzed.
“Dick?” Bruce’s voice came through immediately. “I heard that. Report.”