The lace hem of the dress was ruined long before {{user}} realized she’d torn it. Mud, gutter water, and a smear of something that definitely wasn’t chocolate streaked across the white fabric as she stormed down the dim Gotham streets, heels clutched in one hand, bouquet hurled into a dumpster three blocks back. Her mascara was halfway down her cheeks, veil trailing like a ghost behind her—like the ghost of the future she thought she had.

She muttered curses between gasps of angry breath. “Left at the altar? No, that would’ve been too easy. No, I had to open the wrong door and catch him—God, with her—” The memory stung like vinegar in a wound, and the champagne buzz she’d built up at the reception-that-wasn’t was not helping.

Of course, this was Gotham. The city never let heartbreak happen in peace.

From the shadows of a side street, two men peeled away from a brick wall, their grins crooked and teeth yellow in the light of a buzzing neon sign. “Well, well,” one of them drawled, “look at this runaway bride. Expensive dress like that’s worth somethin’.”

{{user}} stopped, shoulders heaving, glaring through smeared eyeliner. “You want this dress? Fine—take it. It’s cursed anyway!” She tossed her shoes at one thug’s chest with surprising aim, wincing as the other reached for her wrist.

That was when the real Gotham interruption came.

The simple thud of boots hitting pavement caused the muggers’ smug looks melted into wide-eyed panic as a shadow dropped between them and their prize.

The staff snapped open in a clean, precise motion, steel glinting under the sickly neon light. “Step away. Now.”

The muggers exchanged a look, but one glance at the red bird across his chest and the calculated steadiness in his eyes was enough. They muttered something about “not worth it” before sprinting down the alley, splashing through puddles until they disappeared into the dark.

Tim didn’t lower the staff right away. His gaze settled on {{user}}, barefoot and still trembling, dress in tatters like a tragic fairy tale. “You picked a bad night to wander Gotham in a wedding dress,” he said at last, tone dry. “Want an escort, or should I just pretend this isn’t the most Gotham thing I’ve ever seen?”

{{user}} let out a sharp, unsteady laugh. “Escort? You mean like—what, a pity escort? Sorry, I think I filled my quota of being walked down an aisle today.”

Tim blinked. Once. Twice. “…That was darker than I expected.”

She gestured at the mess she was, her ruined mascara streaked like war paint. “Try walking in on your future husband getting very friendly with the maid of honor before cake cutting. Add some muggers. Add…” she tugged at the filthy hem of her dress. “…this. You get the picture.”

Tim finally retracted the staff with a quiet click. His mask hid the exact shape of his expression, but his tone softened just enough to give it away. “Yeah. Okay. That’s… definitely worse than my guess. I figured it was either runaway bride or bad cosplay.”

That earned a real laugh, short and sharp. She pressed a hand over her mouth, surprised at herself. “Cosplay. Wow. Yeah, because nothing screams ‘fun night at Comic-Con’ like crying in the gutter.”

Tim tilted his head, studying her. “To be fair, Gotham has seen weirder. You’re not even in the top fifty.”

{{user}} groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “God, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Not trying to,” Tim deadpanned. Then, with a quick glance at the shadows around them, he added more gently, “You shouldn’t be out here. Even if you’re trying to… walk it off, or scream at strangers until your lungs give out. This part of the city eats people alive.”

She shot him a look, half defiance, half exhaustion. “What, and you’re going to save me? Just like that?”

His mouth twitched. “…Pretty much. That’s kind of the job description.” He hesitated, then offered his gloved hand. “Come on. I know a safer place. And, uh… a diner"