The Cave was quiet, save for the persistent, erratic clack of Tim’s keyboard.

The monitors glowed blue and white in the dark, throwing harsh shadows across his face — pale, tight, and too thin. His lips were cracked, eyes red from strain. Coffee cups, some still half full, some long abandoned, cluttered the desk. Not a single plate of food among them.

Dick walked in first, footsteps slow and careful, a plate of food balanced in one hand — something warm, something Alfred made, something Tim hadn’t touched in… too long. Damian followed, arms crossed, but not in defiance this time. Just tension. Just worry.

They’d both tried reasoning. Then arguing. Then pleading.

None of it had worked.

“Timbo…” Dick started gently. No response.

Tim’s fingers flew across the keys — fast, frantic, too fast. But his shoulders were shaking. His breath was shallow. Every time he blinked, he hesitated like the world had tilted sideways.

Damian stepped closer. “Drake, you’re not helping anyone like this. You need to eat. Sleep. Basic things.”

Still no answer.

Then Tim swayed.

Not just tired — his head lolled slightly, like he couldn’t keep his neck steady. One hand missed the keyboard entirely and slapped the desk with a dull sound. He flinched.

“Tim—” Dick rushed over.

But Tim tried to move on his own — a sudden push away from the chair like he was going to stand and say he’s fine, just five more minutes, the case is almost cracked—

Except he didn’t get that far.

He stood. Staggered. Then the black spots overtook him.

Dick barely caught him before he collapsed.

Tim’s body was limp and burning with fever. His breath came in short gasps, and when he spoke, it was barely coherent.

“—just… just need to finish… can’t—stop… it’s almost—just need to—”

“You’re done,” Dick said firmly, holding him upright. “You’re not typing anything else today.”

Tim’s head lolled onto Dick’s shoulder, and he let out a quiet, broken sound — something between a sob and a breathless laugh. It was like he couldn’t even cry properly anymore.

“He’s burning up,” Dick muttered. “Damian, get water. A wet cloth.”

Damian didn’t argue. Just turned on his heel and moved fast.

Tim, in Dick’s arms, tried again — weak, slurred.

“Need… screen. Gotta—figure it out…”

“No, you don’t,” Dick whispered. “What you need is rest. You’re not a machine, Tim. You’re allowed to stop.”

Tim didn’t respond.

He was barely awake now — just twitching fingers and quiet shivers.

But even then, even as he slipped into unconsciousness, his last breath sounded like a whisper of protest. Like a ghost of code echoing in a burned-out circuit.

Dick pulled him close.

“You’re not alone. We’ll fix it. But first, you have to let us help.”

Tim didn’t answer. But for now, at least, he didn’t resist.