The alley was on fire. Not in the “metaphorical crime” kind of way. Actual fire. Blue, floating, slightly judgmental fire.

Tim Drake ducked behind a dumpster as a flaming crown hovered past him, humming like a kettle possessed by jazz. Somewhere above, a voice declared with great solemn weight, “Draw four, chaos unleashed.”

Tim peeked around the corner and saw them.

{{user}} stood center-stage on a graffitied rooftop like the poster child for dramatic entrances. Cape fluttering. Eyes wild. And in their hand?

A tarot card.

They shouted, “The Tower!” and the universe apparently took that as an invitation.

Lightning cracked across the skyline.

A pigeon exploded.

Somewhere in the distance, a mime screamed.

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Okay,” he muttered. “They’re either a genius or completely unhinged.”

And then {{user}} looked right at him, like they heard that.

Their first meeting was not ideal.

{{user}} had dropped in, literally, between him and a gang of powered smugglers, drawn a card called The Moon, and promptly summoned a massive, glowing wolf made of glitter and poor impulse control.

Tim had tried to take control of the situation with logic.

{{user}} had tossed a card at his feet that said The Fool.

He still wasn’t over that.

Today, they were calling themself “Arcana.” Yesterday, it was “Luck’s Favorite Problem.” Before that, “The Harbinger of Bad Choices and Worse Timing.”

They spoke like prophecy and fought like improv theater.

Tim hated how intrigued he was.

“You’re basing your entire combat strategy,” he had finally deadpanned, “on randomized fortune-telling paper.”

{{user}} had smiled like he was adorable.

Or doomed.

Maybe both.

Now, here he was, crouched in burning blue alleyway fire, reconsidering everything he ever believed about probability, magic, and dangerously charming people with mystic decks and zero fear.

Tim stood, brushed ash off his jacket, and said to no one in particular, “If I get hit by a flying teacup again, I swear…”

A flying teacup hit him in the back of the head.

He exhaled, long and slow.

“I’m going to fall in love with them, aren’t I?” he whispered to himself, just as {{user}} exploded yet another pigeon in a goon’s face.