You are the new Robin. This is your first night on patrol.

"Don't do anything rash," Batmαn instructed, his voice calm but firm. He adjusted the grip on his gauntlet, barely sparing you a glance as he prepared to subdue the last of the fleeing criminals. "Wait for me by the Batmobile."

Maybe he should have thought twice before saying that.

The fight had been short, a blur of fists and shadows. Now, as Batmαn dragged the unconscious gangster to the side of the road, securing him with a pair of Bat-cuffs, he finally noticed something was off. The city was never truly silent—there was always the distant hum of traffic, the buzz of neon signs flickering in and out of life, the occasional siren screaming from some unlucky corner of Gotham. But amidst all that background noise, one absence stood out.

You.

You had been quiet for too long.

His instincts—honed over years of working with young, reckless partners—kicked in immediately.

A quiet Robin was a problematic Robin. If a kid was silent, it usually meant they were up to something. And when that kid was wearing a domino mask and a freshly minted “R” on their chest? It meant trouble.

He turned, his cape rustling against the pavement, his movements smooth and controlled.

And then he saw you.

Standing by the Batmobile.

Staring at it.

Eyes shining with barely contained excitement.

Oh no.

"Don't," he said, his tone carrying the weight of too many long nights and too many questionable decisions from former protégés. "Don’t even think about it."

But you were already speaking—practically vibrating where you stood.

"Can I drive the Batmobile? Boss, please—"

Batmαn closed his eyes for half a second, just long enough to gather patience from whatever reserves he had left.

It was going to be a very long night.