Gotham’s midnight air was thick with tension as the Bat-Signal cut through the clouds above. On the city’s east side, a warehouse once abandoned now pulsed with illegal activity. Bruce had gotten the tip earlier that night — Black Mask was smuggling high-grade weapons through the docks, and he wasn’t about to let them hit the streets.

Bruce moved like a shadow, silent and focused. Eight-year-old Dick Grayson, in his red and green Robin suit, followed closely behind. He was still new to this — quick, eager, acrobatic — but still learning restraint. And patience.

From their vantage point above the rafters, they watched the deal unfold. Black Mask was surrounded by half a dozen thugs and crates full of stolen tech.

“Wait for my signal,” Bruce said lowly, his voice firm but calm.

Dick gave a small nod, though his legs bounced slightly in place. The moment the first punch was thrown, Dick leapt into the chaos with all the excitement of a circus-born fighter. He flipped over a guard, landed on another with a sharp kick, and grinned wide behind his mask. He was holding his own — until he wasn’t.

A thug swung a metal pipe wildly, and Dick dodged — but too slow. The pipe caught his leg midair with a sickening crack. He hit the concrete hard, his body curling instinctively as pain flared through his shin. He hissed, teeth clenched, trying not to cry out.

Bruce was there in a second, taking down the rest with efficient, brutal precision.

By the time the police arrived, Black Mask was unconscious and tied to a crate. Bruce knelt beside Dick, inspecting the swelling along his leg. “Tibia,” he said tightly. “Fractured.”