Tim wasn’t one to believe in karma. He was clinical by nature—always had been. Logic, facts, evidence before anything else. Which felt laughable sometimes, given the world he lived in. A world with aliens, magic, and Gotham: the city of crime and grime where the impossible was just part of the daily commute.

But right now, watching the kid in front of him inhale a burger like it might vanish if they blinked, Tim was starting to believe in karmic justice. Or irony, at the very least.

He’d first noticed the kid on a Tuesday. It was supposed to be a routine patrol—quick recon, minor intervention, home by two. At first, he thought the silhouette on the rooftop was just a random nobody. Probably some some half-baked recruit for one of the smaller gangs. But then the same figure appeared again on Wednesday. Then Thursday. Same rooftop cluster, same distance. Always just barely visible after Tim took down a mugger or disabled a trap.

By Friday, he knew it wasn’t coincidence. It was a pattern.

And Tim—well, he wasn’t proud of it—but he’d done the same thing once. A nine-year-old with a camera and too much time, watching Batman and Robin from the shadows. He’d memorized patrol routes, logged every sighting. He still remembered the exact lens model he'd begged his father for, that very same lens along with his beloved camera buried deep in his childhood items that haven't seen the light of day in years.

So yeah. He recognized the signs. That didn’t mean he liked seeing it reflected back at him.

Saturday night, he made a decision. After wrapping up his patrol, Tim grappled over to where the kid thought they were hidden. It wasn’t hard—his younger self would’ve been disappointed in the shoddy cover. The kid froze when he landed, eyes wide behind a mess of tangled hair, hands stuffed deep in a threadbare hoodie with holes in both sleeves. They were so young. No older than nine. Skinny, bruised-looking.

Clearly hadn’t had a proper meal—or a safe place to sleep—in far too long. Tim stared for a second longer than he meant to. And then he asked the question that had haunted him since his own childhood: Where the hell are this kid’s parents?

It didn’t take long to convince them he wasn’t there to arrest them, or drag them to the nearest shelter. Maybe it was the calm voice. Maybe it was the part where he’d crouched down, not looming. Or maybe the kid just knew. Maybe they saw something in him— the same thing Tim had seen in Batman, years ago.

“C’mon,” he said finally, stepping back. “Fighting criminals makes me hungry. I’m guessing you’re starving.”

Which is how he ended up here: sitting in a Batburger booth, drawing the occasional double-take from the cashier, while a child devoured a meal like it might be their last. Tim sipped his coffee, watching them from across the table. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Because somewhere between the second bite of fries and the fourth stolen glance, he realized something horrible and true.

God. He really is just like Bruce.