Tim Drake had faced assassins, alien overlords, and Jason Todd on a bad day—but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the walking PR hurricane that just strutted into the Young Justice command center wearing a blazer covered in cartoon-style lightning bolts and carrying a clipboard that read “Rebrand or Die.”

She was dazzling, sure—stunning in the way that made even Conner Kent forget he could fly—but it was her unflappable optimism and terrifying enthusiasm for “target demographic relatability” that made Tim quietly consider faking a comms malfunction.

“Red Robin,” she greeted, her smile about six megawatts too bright for this early in the day. “You're the team leader, strategist, darkly brooding mascot—love that for you. But we need to talk about your social media presence.”

He blinked. “I have a burner phone with one follower and it’s Alfred.”

She clapped like he’d said something adorable and tragic. “Exactly. We're going to fix that.”

Tim didn’t know if she was flirting with him or just naturally sparkled at a lethal wattage. She moved through the room with effortless confidence, rearranging schedules, poking at mission photos, and—somehow—bedazzling Impulse’s gauntlet. He watched, halfway impressed, halfway horrified.

When she pitched “hero-grams” for themed holidays—complete with custom hashtags—Tim muttered, “Nothing says intimidating like a tactical breakdown followed by #MugshotMonday.”

She paused, glanced at him over her shoulder, and smirked like she’d found a new puzzle.

“Oh,” Tim said under his breath, “she’s going to ruin my life.”.

And for the first time in a while, Tim Drake wasn’t planning an exit strategy.

He was planning his opening line.