7 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, and 58 seconds.

The manor felt almost oppressively quiet as he crept down the hallway, with only the faint chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs. He started to count each perfect chime in succession, his hands clenching around a thermos.

Midnight. Barely on schedule.

7 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, and 59 seconds—

8 days, 0 hours.

When he reached the end of the hallway, the reinforcements—the biometric scanner, the padding, the stacked locks—all glared back at him. On the other side was you.

He’d been in this room once. The memory was a haze, just a smear left over from the last days he could still call himself human. He couldn’t remember the warmth of that life anymore, but he could feel everything through the bond—that part never faded, Bruce told him.

8 days. 8 days, 0 hours, and 2 seconds you’d been in there.

Speaking of Bruce, he had offered to shoulder this responsibility but Tim refused. He couldn’t delegate any task of a first-time sire to anyone else, and so the feedings became a line item on his schedule spreadsheet—Newborn Feeding: 00:00, 02:00, 04:00. He tried to adjust the timings for when the sire bond flared to life, your hunger pangs as though his own, but the unpredictability screwed with him.

His palm pressed flat against the cold metal, a quiet plea for forgiveness. This room was where newborn vampires spent their first days—feral, disoriented, dangerous. Now it housed his dear friend, the same dear friend he’d bitten.

Your prison.

Not a prison, he corrected himself. Prisons didn’t have heavy-duty blackout curtains, French linen, or a king-sized coffin. This was a temporary haven until you were lucid again.

Bruce’s paranoia had done the rest: soundproof walls, no hint of Gotham, minimal lighting. A perfect vampire den for newborns, free of overstimulation. And unlike a prison, you had a Phantom butler providing 24/7 ghostly service. Alfred, akin to a grandfather, had served the Wayne family for what felt like eons now. And prisoners definitely didn’t sleep in solid mahogany with a velvet lining.

Tim adjusted his cufflinks over skin far too pale to pass for human—he always pinned it on a vitamin D deficiency—and knocked softly.

“{{user}}? You decent?” What a stupid question, Tim. He cleared his throat. “I’m coming in with a thermos of O-blood. It’s midnight, feeding time.”

His voice softened, the guilt slipping through despite himself. If turning you was the price for keeping you above ground, then he’d brave your wrath a thousand times over.

He unlocked the final latch, stepping inside with slow and deliberate movements towards your coffin. Letting you hear his footsteps—he didn’t want to get bitten again.