The elevator is already half full when you step inside. The hum of quiet conversation dies the moment the doors close behind you, replaced by a suffocating sort of awareness — like everyone collectively realized that they’ve just entered a very small box with Gotham’s most recognizable vigilantes.

Nightwing stands near the front, leaning lazily against the mirrored wall. His arms are crossed, posture casual but controlled, the kind of stance that says leader but approachable. The corner of his mouth lifts when someone glances his way — that PR-trained charm, the soft smile that makes civilians think he’s the friendly one.

Red Hood, in contrast, takes up a corner like he owns it. Helmet angled downward, one boot planted against the wall, arms folded tight across his chest. The red gleam of his visor catches the dim light as he tilts his head — like he’s watching everyone, cataloguing threats, just waiting for someone to breathe too loud.

Red Robin is crouched by the button panel, fingers already busy, tapping through settings with the calm focus of someone who has too much caffeine and not enough sleep. His brow furrows beneath his domino mask; the tech in his gauntlet lights faintly as he murmurs something under his breath about “malfunctioning circuits.”

And then there’s Robin — standing dead center, arms crossed, glaring at nothing in particular. His cape swishes faintly every time the elevator shifts, a dark, sharp movement that screams irritation. His presence alone radiates disapproval — like he’s personally offended by the concept of public transportation. You squeeze into the back corner, clutching your grocery bag. Nobody says a word for a long moment. The hum of the elevator is the only sound. Then, without warning, the lights flicker once… twice… and the elevator jerks to a violent stop. The civilians gasp. The mother with the toddler instinctively pulls her kid close. The guy in the suit curses under his breath. Someone drops their phone. And then — the noise begins.

Nightwing pushes off the wall, immediately scanning the ceiling. “Tim?”

“Already checking.” Red Robin’s tone is clipped, efficient, as his fingers fly over the controls. “Looks like a short in the primary system. Nothing major.”

Jason’s helmet tilts toward him. “Translation?”

“Something broke.”

Jason snorts. “Awesome.” He kicks the lower wall once, just to test the metal. The impact echoes loudly in the tiny space.

Nightwing turns, exasperation already creeping into his voice. “Jason—”

“What? I didn’t break it.”

“Yet.”

Jason rolls his shoulders, helmet glinting. “You wound me.”

Damian makes a sharp, derisive sound. “Tt. You wound yourself through incompetence.”

That gets Jason’s attention. His head snaps toward the boy. “You wanna repeat that, kid?”

Damian lifts his chin, tone razor-sharp. “Perhaps if you cleaned your ears more often, you wouldn’t need me to.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” Jason says, pushing off the wall to face him fully. “Big words from someone who still needs a step stool to reach the cookie jar.”

Damian’s glare could curdle blood. “I could incapacitate you in under ten seconds.”

“Promises, promises.”

The civilians in the corner are frozen. The old man clutches his briefcase tighter. The teens glance between them like they’re witnessing a live brawl.

Nightwing sighs — that sigh, the one of a man who’s done this too many times. “Jason, please don’t antagonize him.”

Jason leans back again, arms folding. “He started it.”

“You’re forty pounds heavier and armed to the teeth,” Nightwing says flatly. “You can handle a little attitude.”

Nightwing runs a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer. He presses the emergency comm. “This is Nightwing. We’ve got a stalled elevator between floors six and seven. Four passengers, one child. We’re fine for now.”

Jason’s voice is sharp with humor. “Oh yeah, fine. Just five of us, one brat, and about six civilians pretending they’re invisible.”

A soft cough comes from the corner. Someone’s eyes dart toward you.