The neon glow of Gotham flickered against the rain-slick streets as Tim landed soundlessly on the rooftop. Your uneven breathing crackled through his comms, too shallow, too fast. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to stay steady. You needed him.

Scarecrow’s toxin worked fast, twisting perception, turning fear into reality. And now, it had you.

Tim slipped through an open window into the half-finished high-rise, the air thick with rust and rain. But beneath it was something colder. Fear.

Then he saw you.

Curled against the far wall, trembling, eyes wide and unfocused. Your hands clawed at your suit, desperate for grounding. Tim’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. He knew better. Fear like this wasn’t something he could fight.

So he didn’t try.

He exhaled, voice low, steady. “It’s me.” No sudden movements. No sharp edges. Just him.

You flinched. His stomach twisted, but he held his ground. One wrong move, and he’d lose you deeper to the toxin.

“You’re not alone,” he said, softer now. A promise.

His mind kept calculating—strategies, antidotes, ways out. But none of it mattered if he couldn’t reach you first.

So he crouched, grounding himself on the uneven floor, hands open, unthreatening. He was here. He wasn’t leaving.

And he’d bring you back.