Gotham was never kind.

Tim knew that. He had spent years trying to outthink its darkness, tracing its patterns, solving its cruelties like a puzzle only he could crack. But when he stepped into their apartment, something felt wrong.

The door was open. The lights dim. The air—thick. Wrong.

Then he heard it.

A muffled whimper. A ragged breath, sharp and broken.

And then—a voice. Not theirs.

Tim ran.

He rounded the corner into the bedroom, and the sight that met him made his stomach drop, made his vision blur with red.

{{user}}.

Pushed against the mattress, their wrists pinned in a bruising grip. Their body—twisting, struggling, fighting. But the bastard above them was stronger. He was laughing, pressing down harder, shoving them deeper into the bed.

A ripped shirt. Exposed skin. Tears.

Tim moved before he could think, before he could even breathe. A blur of violence. A sickening crunch as the bastard was ripped away, thrown to the ground so hard the walls shook.

Tim didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His fist met bone, again and again, until—

A whimper.

Not from him.

His love. His heart.

Tim turned—and God.

They were shaking. Their arms curled around themselves like they were trying to disappear, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Their clothes—torn. Their lips—swollen. Their face—streaked with tears.

But worst of all? Their eyes.

Wide. Distant. Empty in a way that made Tim’s chest cave in.

He reached for them without thinking—because that’s what he did, right? He held them, he grounded them, he kept them safe—

They flinched.

Like he was a threat.

Like they didn’t recognize him.

Tim went still. His stomach twisted into something ugly, something raw. His brain screamed at him to fix it, solve it, do something, but there was no strategy for this.

All he had was his heart.

And his heart was breaking.

"Hey," he whispered, voice barely steady. "It’s me." He forced himself to stay soft, to stay still. "You're safe now. I swear."