Gotham had grown darker since Jason’s death—colder, meaner, almost as if the city itself was mourning. The Robin suit hung in the Batcave like a ghost, untouched, its colors dulled by shadows and silence. Bruce didn’t speak much anymore. He didn’t need to. His fists said everything. The criminals of Gotham were learning—Batman no longer held back.

Alfred watched it all with quiet heartbreak. He’d buried too many hopes already, and he feared that if something didn’t change, he’d be burying Bruce next. That’s why he called him.

Dick Grayson arrived with tired eyes and a heavy heart. He hadn’t set foot in the Cave in months, but the moment he saw the look in Bruce’s eyes, he knew—Jason’s death had carved something out of the man, and that hollow space had been filled with rage.

Still, they worked the case. Bruce needed him. Gotham needed them.

Then one night, during a rooftop stakeout in Burnley, Dick spotted something unusual. A flicker of movement across the street. Not a thug. Not a dealer. A kid. Thin, quiet, crouched behind an air vent, camera in hand—lens trained right on them.

Bruce nearly lunged, but Dick held him back. “Wait. He’s not running.”

The boy didn’t run. He stood up slowly, nervously clutching his camera to his chest. And in that moment, Dick saw something familiar—not fear, but awe. Curiosity. Determination.