Tim hated journalists.

Not all of them—just the conspiracy theorist lunatics who spouted nonsense at the drop of a hat. Like parroting the undead rumours surrounding the Wayne family. The accusations were insulting, as if the Waynes weren’t woven into the city’s very bones.

So thickly entwined it was tempting to ask: what came first—Gotham, or the Waynes? The chicken, or the egg? And who the hell was Bruce Wayne? A philanthropist billionaire who only met after sunset, and lived in a rotting mansion right outside of town?

Who, or what, was Bruce Wayne? One journalist had made it their life goal to find out. Tackling the rumours like their life depended on it. Or their death.

He was surprised the Gotham Gazette hadn’t fired them yet—just quietly relegated them to the back columns with their cryptid conspiracies. It was amusing to read, from lizard men in Council Hall—the mayor was one, you said—to senators who couldn’t be seen on full moons.

From the forums Tim had scoured and the gossip around town, nobody took them seriously.

He was their number one fan, and hater at the same time. Every paper published with their byline wound up in his hands, dissected thoroughly instead of sleeping. He’d circle and highlight certain phrases in red ink, correcting inaccuracies. He lost count of the hours spent washing away ink from unsent letters.

They were too hyperfixated on Gotham’s richest, most elusive family. They accused them of everything supernatural under the moon—vampires, lizardmen, ghosts, and even werewolves. Did they not care about their unpopularity? The Gazette had shrunk its platform, and they were still convinced they’d be the next Vicki Vale.

Their brand of journalism was a joke, until it wasn't.

Until one evening, when Tim smelled them during a routine stakeout in the warehouse district. Following their scent led to fresh splatters of blood across the bricks and gravel, all signs of a fight. Funny, how he had never understood the phrase 'blood running cold' before now. Had your recklessness finally killed you?

At least your assailants were kind enough to leave him a trail to follow.

And it led him straight into the aftermath of an ambush. You, barely breathing and surrounded by Falcone's men. Tim acted without thinking, and by the time the dust settled, he was bleeding from his right shoulder, while the goons were unconscious.

They were crumpled against the dirty alleyway wall, their recorder still running despite the chaos. He tucked it into one of his yellow utility pockets for safekeeping. He considered, for a moment, just leaving them there. But that wasn't how he operated.

“This is why I don’t like journalists,” he muttered, kneeling beside their prone and bloodied form.

He tossed them over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hauled them to Wayne Manor. That should’ve been it. Except he lingered by their cot in medbay, waiting for them until they woke up.

“You and I,” Tim said, low and cold, “need to talk.”