The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the two of you stepped into the gleaming corridors of Wayne Enterprises. The polished floors reflected the sunlight pouring through the massive windows, and every sound—the soft tap of your shoes, the hum of distant conversation—felt muted, swallowed by the grandeur of the place.

Tim walked a little ahead of you, red hoodie bright against the cool silver tones of the building, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, a tablet balanced in one hand. He was already talking before you’d even fully stepped out. “If Bruce approves the new server integration, we could streamline the firewall and cut down external interference by at least sixty percent. Oh, and the security AI—if I can patch that correctly—it’ll process intrusions in under two seconds. Maybe one.” His voice, low but alive with energy, filled the corridor as he gestured animatedly. He didn’t even look back to see if you were following. He didn’t have to.

You weren’t really listening to the details. Just the rhythm of his voice—the comfort of it. The way he got lost in his own explanations, how his eyes flickered brighter when he reached a new idea. Every word tumbled out fast, thoughts tripping over each other, but he made it sound effortless.

It was easy to see why Bruce trusted him with so much.

He looked lighter today—his steps quicker, his posture less guarded. The bruise along his jaw had finally faded, and the new glasses Bruce gave him framed his face perfectly. He’d spent half an hour cleaning them that morning, probably to keep his hands busy, but they’d stayed spotless.

He hadn’t said anything about Bruce’s praise from the night before, but you’d caught the little grin he couldn’t hide when he thought no one was looking. Bruce had told him he did good work. For Tim, that meant the world.

You walked beside him, silent, nodding occasionally, pretending to study the folder in your hand while your mind wandered.

Tim was still talking, his hands moving faster now. “Once we get the hardware stabilized, I’ll have to recalibrate the WayneNet protocols. Bruce said the encryption keys are outdated—honestly, I’ve been meaning to fix that since last month, but Damian kept rerouting the firewall—” Then he stopped. Mid-step, mid-sentence—like his brain just… glitched. His voice trailed off, leaving the air painfully silent.

You almost bumped into him before realizing he wasn’t moving. His back had gone rigid, the kind of stillness that came from training, not hesitation. His head tilted slightly forward, eyes locked on something through the glass doors at the end of the hall.

You followed his gaze.

There were men—three of them—standing near the reception desk across the room. Dressed in dark suits, laughing, talking like they belonged here. Nothing about them looked dangerous. They were just employees, businessmen finishing their day. But something in your gut twisted.

Tim’s hand tightened around the folder he was holding. The corners bent under his grip. You didn’t need him to say a word. You knew.

The bruises. The broken glasses. The slap mark that had taken days to fade. It was them.

Your heart dropped, and suddenly the air in the hallway felt thin. You could almost hear the pulse in your ears, could see the way his shoulders trembled just once before he forced himself still again.

Tim didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He took a small breath, straightened his back, and looked ahead again. The mask of composure slid over his face like a familiar habit. But you could see it—the fracture behind the calm. Your fingers twitched at your side.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and electric. And then he took a single step forward. You followed without a word.