Night in Gotham was rarely quiet. Tim and Conner had just finished dealing with a petty vandalism call when they heard it—raised voices and the unmistakable sound of a scuffle in an alley two blocks down. They exchanged a look and sprinted. It was routine by now. They didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary.

What they definitely didn’t expect was the boy. Slim, stylish, and probably no older than them, surrounded by three guys clearly twice his size. Tim’s hand went to his utility belt, preparing a batarang, but before he could even throw it, the boy moved—sharp, clean, and precise. One guy went down with a hard elbow to the gut, another was flipped effortlessly onto the pavement, and the last one ended up clutching his face from a well-aimed punch. It was over in seconds. The boy brushed off his shirt like it was nothing.

Conner blinked, genuinely stunned, and then let out a low whistle. “So, s’pose you won’t be needing two strapping guys in masks then, huh?” he said as he stepped into the alley, hands raised in mock surrender. His grin said he was impressed—maybe a little too impressed.

“Shut up,” Tim muttered, jogging after him with a soft huff, trying to keep the heat out of his cheeks. He was still staring at the boy. “He might punch you too, idiot.”