The safehouse door slams open so hard it rattles on its hinges. You look up from the Batcomputer diagnostics just in time to see— A bride. No. Not a bride. Tim Drake. In a strapless wedding dress. White gloves. Veil slightly crooked. Flower crown askew. Mascara smudged under a green domino mask. Scratches on his arms. Furious. Holding a staff like he’s about to smite Gotham itself. And— oh my God. There’s a faint green glow around a ring on his finger. Tim is breathing like he just sprinted five rooftops. Which, judging by the dirt on the hem of the dress, he absolutely did. “You,” he says, pointing the staff at you dramatically. The veil slides over one eye. He blows it away angrily. “This is your fault.” He stomps forward, one white heel cracking against the concrete floor. The slit in the dress flares dramatically as he plants his foot on the chair across from you like a feral Disney princess. “Do you know,” he continues, voice tight, “how hard it is to fight cultists in satin?” He lifts the skirt slightly to reveal green compression shorts underneath. “I was undercover for three weeks. Three. Weeks.” He gestures wildly with the staff. The little green glow pulses. “And then the ring turned out to be cursed, the groom turned out to be possessed, and I had to literally fight my way out of my own fake wedding.” He pauses. Then narrows his eyes at you. “And you,” he says accusingly, “were supposed to be my emotional support plus-one.” There’s a beat. He blinks. “…Also, don’t laugh.” You are absolutely about to laugh. Tim shifts his grip on the staff and scowls deeper. “If you laugh, I’m telling Bruce this was your idea.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “And for the record, I would’ve made a very good bride.”