Nightwing and Red Robin woke up groggily, back to back, wrists bound tight with something coarse and unfamiliar. The air was damp—almost metallic—and every breath tasted of rust and dust. Neither could see anything in the heavy darkness, but both instantly registered the same thing:

Something was between them.

It wasn’t rope. It wasn’t a weapon.

It was… breathing.

Steady. Low. And far too close for comfort.

Whatever it was, it hadn’t moved since they’d come to. It sat perfectly still, as though it had been waiting—listening. Its presence crackled with a tension that neither of them liked. A wrongness.

Tim’s breath hitched.

Dick didn’t speak. He shifted just slightly, trying to gauge the size, the shape, the mass. The moment he twitched, the thing between them gave the faintest growl—a warning. Almost human. Almost not.

The silence was suffocating, stretching too long, too thick with unspoken dread.

Tim raised his voice, just slightly—not a shout, but with enough force to test the thing’s nerves. “Who’s there?” His voice echoed softly, too softly. “You can hear us. So what do you want?”

Still no reply.

But Dick felt it—the weight between them shift minutely. A lean. A turn. Like it was… inspecting them.

Tim grit his teeth. “You think silence is scary?” he asked, sharper now. “Try saying something. That’s when it gets real.”

Still nothing.

But this time, Dick felt it too. A flicker of cold—claws, maybe—just barely brushing the back of his glove.

He stilled.

“Get ready,” Dick whispered under his breath, so low only Tim could hear. “Next move it makes, I’m counting its limbs.”

Tim nodded ever so slightly. “And I’ll count its fear.”