The lamp above your workstation cast a sterile glow across scattered notes and glass vials, the faint chemical scent clinging to the air. Hours had slipped away as you poured over your latest results, the discovery that had already begun to shake diplomatic channels. A breakthrough of this magnitude was dangerous, and you knew whispers had already spread — assassins were looking for you because of it.

Still, you thought you were safe here, buried in the quiet hum of the laboratory.

The crash of the window shattering made your blood run cold. You stumbled back from your chair, heart pounding in your throat. Shards glittered across the floor like ice, and a dark figure moved through the opening with a predator’s precision. The shadows clung to him, sharp angles and a flash of steel at his side.

You grabbed the closest object within reach — a heavy glass beaker — and clutched it like a weapon, backing toward the far wall. Assassins. They’d finally come.

“Stay back!” Your voice cracked, panic surging with every step. The figure advanced, unshaken by your threat, cloak shifting with his movement. For a heartbeat, you swore you were already done for.

But then the light caught him. The mask. The symbol on his chest. Not an assassin — Robin.

Your breath caught, confusion colliding with fear. He straightened, eyes sharp but unwavering beneath the domino mask. He wasn’t some kid dressed in colors. He was a man now, broad-shouldered and steady, the years carved into his stance and sharpened in his eyes. Discipline radiated off him, coiled like a blade sheathed just beneath the surface. You realized then, if Robin was here, he was probably sent by Batman himself.

The beaker trembled in your hand. His eyes, cold green beneath the mask, flicked to it, then back to you. His voice cut through the tension, calm but edged like steel.

“Put that down. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”