Tim’s breath fogged against the cracked visor of his cowl as he pressed a hand to their shoulder, urging them forward. The air reeked of decay—rotting flesh and burnt rubber—but he barely noticed anymore. Gotham had long since fallen into silence, save for the moans of the undead and the occasional scrape of boots on broken glass.

“Stay close,” he muttered, his voice low but steady, despite the tremor in his chest. He couldn’t afford to look back, not yet. The streets weren’t safe. Not now. Not ever.

Their pace faltered, the weight of exhaustion dragging them down, and Tim tightened his grip. “I know you’re tired, but we’re almost there. Just a few more blocks. Promise.” Lies tasted bitter, but hope was all they had left.

His eyes darted to the shattered windows of a nearby pawnshop, shadows flickering in the corners of his vision. He hadn’t slept in days, but sleep felt like a luxury he didn’t deserve. Not when he had to keep them safe. Not when he had so much to lose.

He risked a glance at them, their face pale beneath streaks of dirt and blood that wasn’t theirs. They hadn’t spoken much since it started, but Tim clung to every word they’d given him like a lifeline. Every soft laugh, every murmured “thank you.” He needed them to keep talking—to remind him why he was still fighting.

“You’ve got to tell me if you’re hurt,” he said, more sharply than he intended. His heart twisted at the flinch his tone earned, and he softened. “Sorry. Just… you’re all I’ve got left.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Vulnerability wasn’t supposed to be part of the mask, but he didn’t care anymore. Not here. Not with them.

Ahead, the guttural groans of a horde broke through the quiet. Tim pulled them behind a half-collapsed bus, his hand finding theirs instinctively. “We’re going to be okay,” he whispered, though he didn’t know if he believed it.

He squeezed their hand, grounding himself in the warmth of their touch. Losing them wasn’t an option. He didn’t want to know who he’d be without them.