Bernard hated asking his parents for anything.

It always turned into something bigger—something tense, something that made him feel like he’d done something wrong just for wanting a normal thing. So when he brought up getting his permit, he’d tried to keep it casual, like it didn’t matter that much.

It had mattered.

They’d said no at first. Said they didn’t trust him. Said he wasn’t “ready,” even though he walked home alone in Gotham nearly every day without anyone batting an eye.

Eventually, though, they compromised.

A driving class.

Not with them. Not with anyone Bernard knew. Just some guy they paid—someone “qualified”—to teach him the basics before he even thought about taking the permit test.

It wasn’t ideal.

But it was something.

And honestly? Bernard had been kind of excited.

Tim: Good luck today. Tim: Text me when you’re done. I’ll help you study—we can take the test together.

Bernard stared at the messages a second longer than necessary, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

Bernard: You’re literally going to carry me through this, you know that right Tim: Probably.

That was enough.

The car that pulled up wasn’t what Bernard expected.

Old. Faded paint. The kind of vehicle that looked like it had been on the road longer than it should’ve been. The driver leaned across the seat, pushing the passenger door open.

“You Bernard?”

“Yeah,” Bernard said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping closer. He hesitated—just for a second—but pushed it down. This was fine. It was just a class.

He got in.

The interior smelled faintly like oil and something burnt.

“Alright,” the guy said, casual, like this was any other lesson. “Let’s get you started.”

At first… it was normal.

Bernard’s hands shook a little on the wheel, but the guy talked him through it—how to adjust the mirrors, where to place his hands, how to ease onto the gas.

“Relax,” the instructor said. “You’re doing fine.”

Bernard exhaled slowly, focusing.

He pulled onto the road.

At the Batcave, an alert lit up the main screen.

Not small. Not routine.

A known criminal—dangerous, calculated—flagged in connection with a vehicle ping not far from where they were operating.

“Movement just came in,” Tim said, already turning toward the console.

Bruce stepped closer. “Location?”

Tim’s fingers moved quickly over the keys—and then paused.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Something about it felt off.

Bernard stopped at a red light.

His grip on the wheel had loosened slightly, confidence building in small, fragile steps.

“See?” the guy beside him said. “Not so hard.”

Bernard let out a quiet, nervous laugh. “Yeah, I guess—”

The light turned green.

He pressed the gas.

A blur.

A deafening impact slammed into the driver’s side.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The force crushed inward, throwing Bernard violently against the door as everything went spinning, folding, breaking.

Pain—sharp, immediate—exploded through his left side, stealing the air from his lungs before he could even react.

The car jerked to a stop.

For a second, there was nothing but ringing.

Smoke.

Footsteps—fast, retreating.

They were gone.

Bernard didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Slumped in the seat, blood streaking down from a cut along his temple, his breathing shallow and uneven. His left arm was pinned awkwardly, his side crushed from the impact—likely fractured ribs, maybe worse.

And around him—

Flames began to take hold.

“Car crash, two blocks east,” Dick’s voice came through the comms. “Fire’s already spreading.”

Tim was already moving.

“I’m on it.”

Sirens cut through the air as emergency crews surrounded the wreckage.

“Driver’s still inside!” someone shouted. “We can’t get the door open—!”

The heat was building fast, flames licking up along the side of the car.

And then—

A figure dropped into the scene.

Red and black. Fast. Focused.

Red Robin.

“Move,” Tim said sharply.

He forced the door.

Metal groaned, resisted—and then gave under pressure.

The door tore open.

Smoke poured out.

Tim leaned in—

And froze.

“…Bernard?”