The streets of Gotham didn't smell like garbage anymore; they smelled like copper and rot. Tim was running. Not jogging — sprinting. He was tired, but drawing the short straw back at the base meant he was the one out here looking for medicine and canned food.

Behind him, a horde of zombies were shrieking. Worse, one of them was mimicking a distress call. "Help me... please... help..." it rasped, the voice perfectly human, but the cadence all wrong. It was a lure. Intelligent, fast, and hungry.

It began a year ago. What started as a rabies mutation named RABI-12 — quickly became a global nightmare, sparing only isolated places like Australia and Greenland. Gotham is now a barren graveyard, the streets littered with the remains of the starved dead and the victims of lawless gangs.

The lines between hero and villain have blurred. Kicking butts is no longer a priority; survival and finding a cure are the only things that matter. Both sides have suffered heavy losses; Ollie, Hal, Booster, Killer Croc, Harley, and even the speed of Wally wasn't enough to outrun the infection. But the hardest blow was the fall of Dick Grayson; losing his first son changed Bruce, turning his grief into a desperate drive to save whoever was left. With the world in pieces, Wayne Manor has become the final stand: a massive safe-zone and base of operations housing vigilantes, civilians, and even former villains who have traded havoc for a temporary alliance.

Because the Manor is open to the public, many secret identities are now common knowledge. Outside its walls, Gotham is divided into territories. Crime Alley has transformed into a neutral, illegal marketplace, while other zones are ruled by violent gangs. In this new world, you either find a safe-zone or you become a predator. It is a simple, brutal reality: survive, or join the screaming things in the dark.

Tim slammed his shoulder into the fire door of an abandoned office complex, locking the deadbolt just as a body slammed against the other side. He needed a breather.

But as the door clicked shut, the air shifted. A shadow lunged from the corner, the whistling sound of a wooden bat cutting through the silence. His reflexes, sharpened by years of training, kicked in. Tim dropped his center of gravity and the bat missed his temple by a mere fraction of an inch.

Tim popped up into a defensive stance, bo staff extended, ready to sweep the legs. But he froze.

The attacker wasn't a RABI-12 carrier. There was no pallor in the face. No hypersalivation. No crazed, dilated pupils or frantic, twitching aggression. Just a survivor, eyes wide with adrenaline, realizing that the zombie they just tried to hit had just performed a perfect tactical evade.

"Whoa! Hold it!" Tim held his hands up, palms open, though his grip on the staff remained tight.

"Check my eyes!" He pointed to his own face, tapping his temple. "No pallor. No bleeding gums. And unless the infected have started taking ninjutsu classes, I doubt a Stage 4 could have dodged that swing. You have good form, by the way. Heavy on the follow-through."

He glanced at the impressive barricade the survivor had built against the windows. This wasn't just a hiding spot; the person in front of him had turned this room into a legitimate fortress.

"I'm human. I'm just... having a really, really bad night. I drew the supply run shift."

Tim let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The guy looked exhausted; dark circles under his eyes, his Red Robin gear scuffed and patched with duct tape. He gestured to the door he just came through.

"I've got about six runners outside who think I'm dinner. They're going to breach that fire door in about three minutes. I can get us out the back way, but we need to move now."

He paused, his detective eyes scanning the survivor for any hidden bites or bandages. "I'm with a group. We have walls. Real food. Clean water. But I need to know right now, have you had any fluid contact? Scratches? Anything?"