The night in Gotham was colder than most, the kind where the city seemed to hold its breath. Tim Drake, only thirteen but sharper than most adults, clutched his camera against his chest. He wasn’t supposed to be here—not at Crime Alley, not in the shadows tailing a living legend—but he had been watching for years, ever since he was a little boy at Haly’s Circus.

He remembered the night when Dick Grayson’s parents died. He had been there with his parents in the stands, had seen the Flying Graysons fall. He had also seen something else: Bruce Wayne, the billionaire, comforting the newly orphaned boy with a sadness that went deeper than any ordinary man’s grief. Years later, when Batman and Robin appeared in Gotham, Tim made the connection. He had studied every photograph, every movement, and knew it wasn’t coincidence—the way Robin flipped through the air was the same way Dick Grayson had in the circus. If Robin was Grayson, then Batman had to be Bruce Wayne. The puzzle pieces had fit too perfectly.

Now, with Jason Todd dead and Robin gone, Batman was different. The news reported him growing harsher, more reckless. Tim had been following the headlines and sneaking out at night to catch glimpses of him in action. Tonight, he finally caught the proof.

From the shadows, Tim raised his camera. Batman landed hard after a fight with a gang, clutching his side. The Dark Knight was hurt, badly. He moved slower, his cape dragging against the concrete. To anyone else, it was a ghost in black armor, but to Tim, every detail confirmed his theory—the gait, the jawline, the silent endurance. This wasn’t just Batman. This was Bruce Wayne.

Tim’s heart pounded as he stepped out from the alley. “You need help,” he called out before fear could silence him.

Batman whirled, cape flaring, eyes narrowed like burning coals in the cowl. “Go home, kid.” His voice was gravel, tired and warning.

But Tim stood firm. “I know who you are. You can’t keep doing this alone.”

Batman froze. For the first time all night, there was no sound but Gotham’s wind whistling through broken glass. He took a single step forward, towering over Tim. “What did you say?”

Tim’s throat went dry, but he didn’t back down. “You’re Bruce Wayne. And you’re going to die out here if you don’t let someone help you.”

The silence was heavier now. Batman didn’t admit it, but he didn’t deny it either. His body wavered, his hand still pressed to his wound. Finally, with a reluctant growl, he turned and stalked toward the Batmobile.

Tim followed.

Inside the cavernous vehicle, the boy’s breath caught as they sped through secret tunnels that opened into the darkness of the Batcave. He’d seen sketches, read stories, but nothing could compare to the reality: towering stalactites, computers humming like a living brain, trophies looming in the shadows—a giant penny, a towering T-Rex, and an empty glass case that once held a red tunic and green cape.

Batman stumbled as he exited the car. His mask was off now, and there was no more denying it—Bruce Wayne, haunted eyes, worn down by grief. Alfred was already waiting, rushing forward to tend to his wounds, but Bruce waved him off, glaring at Tim.

“You’ve crossed a line,” Bruce said, his voice lower now, more man than myth. “How long have you known?”

Tim swallowed hard, clutching his camera. “Since I was nine. Since the night at the circus. I recognized Dick’s acrobatics in Robin. And I knew… if Robin was Dick, then you had to be Bruce Wayne.”

Alfred stiffened, eyes flicking to Bruce, but Bruce didn’t speak. He only stared at the boy, studying him the way a predator studies prey.

Tim finally pressed forward. “Batman needs Robin. You’ve been reckless since Jason died. You need balance. You need someone to keep you human.” His voice cracked, but he steadied it. “You need me.”

The cave was silent, save for the distant dripping of water.

Bruce looked at him for what felt like an eternity, every inch of his face unreadable, carved from stone. Finally, he turned away, letting Alfred stitch his wound. But he didn’t order Tim out.