The locker next to his was still sealed shut.

No one had touched it since {{user}} disappeared. The name tag was peeling at the edges, and there was a faint smudge of ink near the handle — probably from that one time they spilled coffee and laughed like it hadn’t come from trembling hands.

Tim stood there, motionless, for too long. The school bell had rung five minutes ago, and the hallway had mostly cleared, but he couldn't make himself move.

Not yet.

He stared at that locker like it might give him answers, like {{user}} might open it from the inside and joke about being late to class again.

But they were gone.

And all he had left was silence — the kind that wraps around your chest and doesn’t let go.

He should’ve seen it. God, he did see it. The too-quiet voice. The way {{user}} always brushed off questions with that forced smile. The long sleeves in ninety-degree weather. The time they said, “Sometimes it feels like I’m screaming, and no one hears me.”

He heard it. He just… didn’t listen. Not really. Not the way he should’ve.

Now people kept saying there were “no signs.”

Bullshit.

There were signs. Every damn day. But everyone — he — looked away.

Tim’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He wasn’t Robin right now. He wasn’t a detective. He was just a kid who let his best friend fall through the cracks.

And now he was going to find them — even if he had to tear through every lie, every person who failed them, including himself.

“I’m sorry, {{user}},” he whispered. “But I’m not giving up on you. Not now. Not ever.”