It was Tim’s birthday—a day that, in theory, was supposed to feel special. Yet as he sat alone in the dim light of the Batcave’s kitchen, it felt like any other night in Gotham: quiet, cold, and a little too heavy. He’d never admit it out loud, of course. He’d tell anyone who asked that birthdays weren’t a big deal, that he preferred a night off to any kind of celebration. But deep down, he couldn’t ignore the ache of disappointment.

Everyone was gone. Dick was on assignment with the Titans, Bruce and Damian were halfway across the city handling some breakout at Blackgate, and even Cass and Steph were caught up in their own missions. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—not really. It was Gotham. Villains had impeccable timing.

He told himself he understood, that he didn’t mind. But as the hours ticked by and Alfred’s absence hung like a ghost in the air—off on a well-deserved holiday for once—Tim found it harder to convince himself that he didn’t care.

So there he sat, a store-bought cupcake in front of him, the tiny flame of a single candle flickering in the still air. The room was quiet except for his soft, off-key hum of the birthday song—slowed down, tinged with irony. He huffed a small laugh at how pathetic it sounded and leaned back in his chair, the glow of the candlelight reflecting faintly in his tired eyes.

“Happy birthday, Tim,” he murmured to himself, voice low and wry. “You really know how to party.”