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. It was insulting, as if the Waynes weren’t woven into the city’s 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 banished them to the back columns with their cryptid conspiracies. It was amusing to read, from lizard men in Council Hall—the mayor was responsible, apparently—to senators who couldn’t cast reflections.

From the forums Tim scrounged, and the talk around town, nobody took them seriously.

He was their number one fan, and hater at the same time. Every paper 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 red ink.

They were so 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 their platform, and they were still convinced they’d be the next Vicki Vale.

It was funny—until it wasn’t.

Until Tim smelled them during his stakeout. Found the traces of warm blood scattered across the gravel. He didn’t really understand the term of ‘blood running cold’ until now—and he didn’t have any blood!

So, he followed. Went to see what their reckless behind was thinking.

They’d walked right into an ambush. Three guys, maybe four—too many. By the time the dust settled, he was bleeding from the shoulder, and they were crumpled on the ground, their recorder still ongoing.

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

The scent of their blood was like a siren’s call, clinging to his nose like static. He clenched his jaw.

He tossed them over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and hauled them to the Wayne Manor. That should’ve been it.

Except he lingered, waited by their bed until they woke up.

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