A half-empty cup of coffee sat miserably on the counter. The bottom was coated with a layer of sludge—thick as wall plaster but somehow runny, like syrup. The textures collided in a strange alchemy: unstirred coffee grounds hardened at the bottom while the cold, leftover liquid slowly dissolved them into a gritty paste. It was sludge in a cup. Quite literally.

You turned to your right and saw Tim. Holed up in his room, he hadn’t been on patrol in days, thanks to a stubborn cold. But instead of taking the opportunity to rest like any normal person, he had immersed himself in work, hunched over his computers.

He had completely taken over Oracle’s job, much to everyone’s frustration.

“Go. Away.” Tim’s hoarse voice cut through the quiet as soon as he heard the door creak open. He didn’t mean to sound so moody, but exhaustion had a way of stripping away his patience.

Sleep deprivation and irritation hung heavy over him. His work was getting sloppy—slowing Bruce down with incomplete or incorrect intel, or sending barely comprehensible, misspelt updates to the Batsuit. It was clear he was pushing himself too far.

In truth, Tim was more like Bruce than he’d ever admit. Stubborn to a fault. His resilience was something he’d inherited through the Robin mantle, an unrelenting determination passed down directly from the Bat.

Alfred had sent you to coax him into bed, hopefully.