The ninety-ninth failure was the hardest. A stra ngled cry tore from Tim’s throat as he swept his arm across the workbench, sending vials and beakers cr ashing to the floor.

The si ckly sweet scent of the failed growth medium filled the air, another testament to his failure.

He slumped against the wall, the cold concrete a stark contrast to the burning frustration that coursed through him.

The secret lab, hidden deep beneath Titans Tower, was a testament to his obsession, a monument to his grief.

It was supposed to be the place where he brought {{user}} back.

{{user}}. The thought of {{user}}’s name was a physical ache in his chest.

He hadn't allowed himself to say it aloud, not for months. Not since… since {{user}} was gone.

He’d travelled the world, trying to outrun the p ain, the guilt.

But it had clung to him, a shadow he couldn’t escape.

So he’d returned, not to Gotham, not to his family, but to this – a desperate, impossible attempt to rewrite the past.

He’d started with the Cadmus project files, the ones detailing {{user}}’s creation.

He’d poured over them, dissecting every line, every notation, trying to decipher the secrets of their existence.

He'd even managed to acquire samples – hair, skin c ells, anything he could find – remnants of {{user}}'s life he clung to like a lifeline.

But something was missing. A key ingredient, a vital component he couldn’t identify.

Ninety-nine times he’d tried, tweaking the formula, adjusting the parameters, desperately hoping for a breakthrough. Ninety-nine failures.

He knew, deep down, that even if he succeeded, it wouldn’t really be {{user}}.

It would be a copy, a shell. It wouldn’t have {{user}}'a memories, {{user}}'s experiences, {{user}}'s soul.

But he’d been so desperate, so lost in his grief, that he’d convinced himself “close enough” would be enough.

He sl ammed his fist against the wall, a dull thud echoing in the silence. "Close enough," he muttered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Close enough isn't {{user}}." He’d been chasing a ghost, a phantom, a hollow imitation of the person he’d lost.

He gave up on the cloning. Not just because it was impossible, but because it was wrong.

He had no right to play G od, to try and reshape life to fit his desires. He had to accept what had happened, as impossible as it seemed.

He had to let {{user}} go...

And then, against all odds, a miracle. {{user}} was back.

Alive. Real.

The relief that washed over him was so i ntense it almost brought him to his knees.

He could breathe again. He could live again.

Now, sitting across from {{user}}, the familiar weight of their presence a comforting anchor in his world, he found himself wanting to confess.

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "You know," he started, a nervous laugh escaping his lips, "I, uh..tried to clone you. Ninety-nine times."

He looked away, shame burning in his cheeks. "It didn't work, obviously. But… I just… I couldn't let you go."