The first tug hit him like a wayward punch. Tim froze mid-step on the rain-slicked Gotham sidewalk, a hand pressed to his chest. This is it. He’d heard about the feeling—a pull so visceral it could knock the air out of you—but he’d always imagined it would come softly instead, his ribs ached, his pulse hammered, and his eyes snapped instinctively toward the alley across the street.

Tim cut through the foggy evening. The tug tightened, guiding him like a hook in his sternum. He rounded the corner and stopped.

There they were.

{{user}} stood in the dim glow of a flickering street lamp, backlit by the haze of the city. Their frame was slight but squared up against a man twice their size—the man loomed over a trembling woman pressed against the alley wall.

Tim’s breath caught.

He knew their name. Had always known it. {{user}}. Written on his wrist since the day he was born.

And now here they were—a whirlwind of chaos, with keys jammed between their knuckles, free hand already fumbling for the pepper spray clipped to their bag. No technique. No training. Just pure, reckless instinct.

The man lunged.

{{user}} dodged—barely—and swung. Their keys scraped harmlessly off his leather jacket, but they followed up with a wild spray of pepper spray, missing his eyes by inches {{user}} stumbled back, nearly tripping over their own feet.

Oh god. They’re going to get themselves killed.

Despite it all, {{user}} wasn’t backing down. They adjusted their grip on the pepper spray, eyes narrowed, breath coming fast. Blood trickled from their nose—had the guy already hit them?—

The man charged again.

Tim moved. He caught {{user}}’s wrist and pulled them back, stepping smoothly into the man’s path. A twist of pressure, a sharp gasp, and the guy was on the ground, groaning.

“Hi,” he said.

They didn’t answer. Just looked at him—really looked—and then down at their wrist, still circled by his fingers. The tug fluttered, a shared heartbeat.

{{user}} smiled.

Tim decided right then: he liked trouble.