Night draped itself over Wayne Manor like a heavy curtain, the vast estate quiet in a way it rarely was. The halls that usually echoed with footsteps, training, or the distant hum of the Batcave were still. Rain tapped faintly against the tall windows, a soft rhythm that blended with the sleepy creaks of the old house settling into the dark.

For the first time in a long time, things had seemed… calm.

Tim Drake was supposed to be getting better.

At thirteen, Tim was the youngest in the manor, tucked into a bedroom that still felt too large for someone his size. The doctors said recovery would take time. Bruce said patience was important. Dick tried to make things normal again, joking and hovering in that big-brother way of his. Jason didn’t say much about it, but he stayed close, watching more than anyone noticed.

Because all of them remembered.

They remembered the green hair. The painted smile. The laughter that hadn’t sounded like Tim’s.

The Joker had gotten his hands on him, twisted him into something that called itself Joker Jr. for far too long. The scars of it weren’t visible anymore, but they lingered in other ways—quiet ones.

Sometimes Tim would stare off into space like he was watching something no one else could see.

Sometimes he’d flinch at sudden noises.

Sometimes his fingers twitched restlessly, tapping patterns against tables or the edge of his bed.

Once or twice… he had laughed. Just once or twice. Short, sharp bursts that had made the entire room go silent.

But those moments had stopped weeks ago.

Or so everyone hoped.

Tonight the manor slept.

Dick Grayson was sprawled across his bed down the hall, one arm hanging off the mattress after a long patrol.

Jason Todd had fallen asleep with the bedside lamp still on, a book open across his chest.

And in the master bedroom, Bruce Wayne rested lightly, the kind of sleep that never fully relaxed, even when the city outside was quiet.

For a while, everything was peaceful.

Then—

A sound cut through the silence.

It started quietly.

A soft, breathy chuckle from down the hallway.

Another one followed, higher this time.

Then another.

And another.

The laughter grew quickly, spiraling upward into something sharp and manic, the kind of sound that didn’t belong in the middle of the night. It echoed against the high ceilings of the manor, bouncing down the halls in jagged bursts.

Tim sat upright in bed.

But the laughter didn’t stop.

It poured out of him uncontrollably, high and broken, his shoulders shaking as his hands clutched the blankets. His vision blurred as something in the back of his mind twisted—like a voice scratching against the inside of his skull.

The laugh didn’t sound like him.

It sounded wrong.

It sounded familiar.

Suddenly Tim gasped, the sound snapping off like a switch had been flipped.

Silence crashed back into the room.

For a moment he just sat there, chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused.

Then realization hit him.

His hands started shaking.

“No… no, no, no—”

Tim grabbed at his hair, panic rushing in so fast it made the room spin. His breathing turned ragged as he scrambled backward against the headboard like he was trying to escape something that wasn’t even there.

“Stop—!” he choked out, voice cracking. “Make it stop—!”

The panic came fast and messy—fidgeting hands clawing at the blankets, nails digging into his arms, eyes darting wildly around the dark room.

Down the hallway, footsteps thundered.

Dick was the first to burst through the door, hair messy and eyes wide.

“Tim?!”

Jason was right behind him, already alert despite having been dead asleep seconds earlier.

And a moment later Bruce filled the doorway, tall and imposing even in the dim light.

All three of them froze.