Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

requiem

noun

re·​qui·​em ˈre-kwē-əm

1 : a mass for the dead

2 : a solemn chant (such as a dirge) for the repose of the dead

—

Timothy Jackson Drake's first glimpse of death was when he was just a toddler, barely reaching his father's knees. His eyes followed the descent of two world renowned acrobats, down, down, down.

His mother wasn’t quick enough to cover his eyes.

The sound of their bodies breaking and shattering on their landing was muffled by the ringing in his ears. He’s not quite sure if he’s still breathing, if he’s shaking or just numb all over. The screams of the people around him were muted, and he sat frozen in his seat until his father picked him up to quickly evacuate the area.

He glimpsed Dick Grayson’s collapsed form, held in the arms of Bruce Wayne.

He read the news that Dick became the ward of Wayne a few months later. A few years after that, Batman and Robin hit the streets.

He got intrigued. When his parents finally gifted him his trusty camera, he learned to utilize the shadows to his advantage at the age of 8, managing to follow the Dynamic Duo, improving his stealth and agility bit by painful bit.

He witnessed Gotham's rotted roots through the lens of his camera, the festering corruption buried deep into its foundations to the point that he felt slimy with just a few hours of wandering around, unprotected in the putrid environment, in this thick smog. With the duo’s interventions, things weren't getting any worse, but they weren't getting any better either. 

It was… stagnant, as if the very air they breathe is holding their breath, waiting for something dormant to awaken.

To be honest, Tim felt as if Lady Gotham was clutching the demented villains close, letting them wreck havoc with nary the consequence. Perhaps She knows that even the Joker is not the worst thing that could happen to Her city, that there's something coming, something… more.

It made him glad that he already witnessed what death was like when he was a wee toddler. That was one of the things he could be ready for.

Then, he discovered Batman and Robin's identities. Well, superheroes always needed technologically-savvy guys in the background.

Also, he’s so stupid!

—

Tim opens his eyes to someone shaking him. He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes as he takes stock of where he was. There’s a painful crick on his neck and he was shivering from laying down on the cold floors for so long, but that was irrelevant when he was confronted by the fact that it was Bruce Wayne shaking him awake, in an empty ballroom, after the gala.

He’s mortified, and frankly terrified as he sat up and his wide eyes searched for the disapproving stare of his parents. He didn’t mean to fall asleep behind the table! He was just hoping that he could hide there after one too many old ladies pinching his cheeks.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mr. Wayne soothed, “Do you know where your mom and dad are?”

“Um,” Tim stutters, “They’re not here?”

Mr. Wayne frowns, “Every other guest had already left.”

Tim sighs, hunching over himself. He really should be used to this, but at the same time, he just feels defeated. “It’s okay then, Mr. Wayne. I just live next door anyway, I can just walk there.”

“Oh, you’re Janet’s son?” He sounds surprised and Tim curls farther into himself, feeling like the collar of his button up slowly choking him. “Regardless, let me or Dick walk you to your house. It’s getting late, and it’s dangerous for kids to walk alone in the dark.”

Tim quickly shakes his head, “Oh, no, it’s okay Mr. Wayne. I don’t want to be a bother. And your son is a kid too, anyway.” He slaps his hands on his mouth, horrified. Sometimes, his mouth works faster than his brain but that was really rude, and he half expected his mother to magically appear and slap the back of his head. So he’s relieved when Mr. Wayne just chuckles. 

He really didn’t seem like the idiot that his mother always says, not like his father anyway.

“You can call me Bruce, chum. None of that Mr. Wayne stuff,” Tim nods shyly. 

“I’m Tim,” he whispers. The corner of Bruce’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, giving him a more warm-hearted look. 

“Nice to meet you then, Tim. Now, why don’t we go to the kitchen and have Alfred make us his famous hot chocolate. That should warm us up, hm?”

When Tim nods again, Bruce holds out his hand for him to take. When he did, Bruce stood up from his kneeling position and started walking to the kitchen.

Once Alfred (“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” “Call me Alfred, Master Timothy.” “Then call me Tim!”) gave him the best cup of hot chocolate he ever had in his life, this is the first time he ever had hot chocolate Bruce stepped out to make some calls when suddenly, someone barreled into the kitchen.

“I heard we have an adorable guest and some hot chocolate!” Dick Grayson, in all his pink hello kitty pajamas glory, exclaims.

Tim pouts. “I'm not adorable,” he mumbles into his cup.

The older boy smiles, thanking Alfred when the butler handed him his cup, “You’re plenty adorable.” 

Bruce enters the kitchen once again with a deep frown before clearing his face with a neutral expression when he glances at Tim. He looks to be thinking to himself for a moment, before sighing and taking the chair beside Tim. 

“I can’t seem to get a hold of your parents’ phone, sweetheart. They must be asleep already.” Tim deflates and looks down at his half empty cup, but honestly he isn’t that surprised anymore. He missed the worried glances that the other three shared. “Tell you what, why don’t you stay the night and we can drop you off at your house tomorrow morning when they’re awake. I’ll just leave your parents a voicemail.”

Tim’s head snapped up in a panic, his parents’ voices swirling through his head.

“Honestly, you can’t do one thing right!”

“Timmy, if you don’t have anything useful to say then just stay in your room and out of our way, ‘kay?”

“I don’t want to intrude and then bother you tomorrow! You must be busy!”

“It's no trouble,” Bruce placates, “Dick and I aren't busy tomorrow. We can spare a few minutes walking you next door.”

Tim looks down and fidgets with his hands, “If you're sure.”

“Of course we’re sure.”

“With that said, let me take my leave to prepare a room for Master Tim,” Alfred says.

“Thank you, Alfred, Bruce,” Tim flushes, embarrassed at the trouble he was causing all because he fell asleep during the gala.

“It is of no consequence.”

Alfred leaves the room with a meaningful glance at Bruce. The man nods and looks at Dick to see his son looking at him, before he cocked his head towards Tim. The teen gives him a discreet thumbs up before he takes his leave to leave a voicemail.

“Why don’t we go to the living room and watch a movie while Alfred prepares a room for you?”

Tim looks unsure, but at least the flush of his face somewhat calmed down, “Okay.”

—

Bruce leans against the guest bedroom’s doorway watching his father figure lay some of Dick’s old clothes on the bed.

“You know, I find it interesting that we weren’t aware that the Drakes had a son before this gala, their manor had always seemed empty during their trips and so far, I have heard no mention of a child coming along on their excavations,” Bruce starts, “And the boy seems panicked in certain parts of our conversation. It’s concerning.”

Alfred hums, looking as calm and collected as always but the look in his eyes gives him away, “The Drake parents haven’t called back asking for the whereabouts of their son, yes?”

Bruce shakes his head, “No,” he says, “No panicked calls from our next door neighbor.”

“Hm.” Alfred turns away and did some finishing touches to the room. “Regardless, we can fetch Master Tim now so he could settle in and sleep. The late hour would do no good to growing boys.”

That was a ‘let’s talk later’ if he ever heard of one. Alfred leaves for the Batcave while Bruce looks for the kids.

Bruce finds the boys in the living room watching Lilo & Stitch. Tim looks to be enraptured by the movie—which, considering the main essence of the animated film, makes sense.

He clears his throat, “Sorry to ruin your fun, boys, but it’s bedtime for children under 10.” Tim pouts but doesn't protest. Another unusual behavior for a child his age. He had half expected some complaints given how attentive he was watching the film, but it looks like his perception of Janet sours a bit more.

“Don't worry, Tim! We can continue the movie the next time you're over,” Dick smiles at Tim, where the boy hesitantly returns. Dick turns the television off before he jumps up from his seat on the sofa and offers his hand. Tim takes it, and the teen takes it upon himself to lead Tim through the manor.

Bruce watches, bemused. He follows the kids through the corridors. It seems that Dick had already guessed that the bedroom that Alfred had prepared would be the one beside his, as he’s already going straight to the East Wing. Dick rambles through different topics on their short journey when it seems like Tim once again closes into himself. The boy either hums, nods, or just stares straight into the distance.

“And here’s your room!” Dick finishes with a flourish.

Tim looks around the room with wide eyes before spotting the folded clothes on the bed. He realizes part of the reason that he's restless and unsettled is because he's still in the itchy suit that his mother had forced him to wear. He steps inside the room before noticing that Bruce and Dick didn't leave and is still watching him.

He blushes, “You guys can leave now. I can go to sleep after I change.”

“You sure?” Bruce looks at him, something undecipherable in his gaze.

“Uh huh,” Tim nods quickly. No need to trouble them further! “Thank you for letting me stay the night.” he bows before straightening. Never let it be said that Janet Drake didn't teach Tim manners.

“You're welcome. But as we've said, it's really no problem,” Bruce says, smiling, “But if you’re sure, we’ll bid you a good night, then.”

“I’m sure!” Tim raises his hand and waves, “And uh, goodnight?” he says awkwardly.

Dick chuckles, turning to leave and go into his room, “Night, Timmy! Sleep well! Oh, and don't be shy to knock on my door if you need anything.”

“Okay.” Dick waves at him before closing his own door. Ha, yeah, he's not going to bother the older boy more than he already did. Bruce leaves with a nod and Tim closes the door once he sees Bruce round the corner.

Tim takes a deep breath and lets his curious eyes roam over the room he was given. The walls were painted a deep navy blue, with the deep color accentuated with the low lights that were provided by the two lamps on each side of the bed and the sconces plastered throughout the wall of the room. The bed was queen-sized and covered with white sheets, with enough pillows that Tim could probably build a pillow fort around him. There’s a bedside table on the left side of the bed, and when he opens one of the two doors on the right side of the room he discovers it was a walk-in closet with a full body mirror at the back. 

Before going to the other door—which he assumes is the bathroom, he fetches the pile of clothes from the bed. It’s a simple set of clothes–some underwear, a white shirt, black sweatpants, and a pair of socks.

Once he did his business in the bathroom, brushed his teeth with the provided toothbrush, and cleaned himself up a little, he changed into the clothes given to him. He had to wear the underwear he was previously wearing as the other one was too big. On the other hand, the shirt’s hem reached his thighs and he had to roll the sweatpants three times with the waistband tied tight around his waist. He didn’t bother wearing the socks as he feels like it will only slide off his feet, anyway.

He lays down on the, frankly, too soft bed after arranging the pillows around him akin to a nest. His body sinks into the mattress, and when sleep claims him just a moment later with the humming of the A/C in the background, his final thought was ‘Maybe this is what it feels to be home.’

—

The next day, Dick wakes up bright and early despite getting back late last night. He has always been a morning person given how he was raised in the circus, but even he likes to sleep in a little after a late night. But they do have a special little guest today, and based on the sounds coming from the other room, their little guest is most certainly awake so he did some stretches before leaving his room.

He knocks on the door, smiling when a ‘come in!’ reaches his ears. He opens the door and bites back a coo when he sees Tim standing there in his old clothes and making the bed. Tim’s a lot smaller than him at 7—only standing just below his waist from his own height of 5’3”, so he’s practically swimming in the clothes and combined with the atrocious bed hair, Tim looks adorable. 

“Morning, baby bird,” he says, then immediately after he winces. The nickname just slipped out, but aside from the furrowed eyebrows of the kid, Tim didn’t comment so he inwardly sighs in relief.

“Good morning, Dick!” Tim gives him a big smile, and this time Dick didn’t bother to hide his coo because that was a gummy smile and has a missing central incisor that made Tim look very very adorable.

“Dick?” Tim gives him such a confused puppy look that he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Can I hug you?” he asks quickly but seriously.

“What?”

“Can I hug you?” he asks more slowly, reigning in his excitement. No need to spook the kid this early in the morning. 

Tim looks at him weirdly, before slowly nodding, “Okay?”

Well, no need to hold himself back now that he has permission. With a squeal, he rushes to pick Tim up in a hug. The kid flinches and doesn’t seem to know where to put his arms, ultimately deciding to let it hang limply as Dick quite literally spins him around.

“So cute!”

“I’m not cute!” Tim pouts, which, in Dick’s very humble opinion, invalidates his protest because it was very cute.

He puts Tim down and grins evilly when an idea sprung up inside his head. He moves slowly, deliberately projecting his movements to give Tim an out if he wanted to. But the kid just stares at him warily, before his eyes widens as if realizing what he’s going to do and he rapidly takes some steps back. But it’s too late for poor Timmy.

He lunges. With a shriek, Tim runs away from him with a high-pitched laugh. Unfortunately, the baby bird is no match for Robin. He tickles Tim’s sides once he catches him, and Tim’s giggles were so loud that he reckons it’s echoing throughout the manor. He feels a grin grow on his face. Lately, the mood in the manor has been dark and gloomy—he and Bruce’s fights about his independence are getting more frequent and at times, violent, with Alfred more commonly than not acting as a mediator. So really, hearing a child’s happy laugh echo throughout the walls instead of angry shouting is a very welcome change.

“D-Dick!” Tim stutters through his laughs, “I give up! I give up!”

“What was that?” Dick crows, “I didn’t hear a please!”

“Dick!” Tim whines, “Please?” 

“Hm,” Dick pretends to think about it, but Tim was looking at him with such earnest baby blues that he couldn’t possibly refuse. Really, who can say no to that? “Alright, alright, I’ll let up." he lifts his hands up and Tim dramatically collapses to the floor gasping for air. 

“Ready for breakfast now?” Dick asks him cheekily.

Tim sits up, “I get breakfast?”

Dick’s angered expression was quickly masked by a strained smile, “Of course. It’s Alfie’s law: breakfast first before starting the day. Skipping the most important meal of the day is not allowed in this household, no siree.”

They go down to the main dining room where Bruce and him usually eat, Dick holding Tim’s hand on their way there. Tim clearly didn’t mind him holding his hand last night, so he’s going to milk that indifference for all he’s worth. 

‘Or maybe,’ he thinks—seethes, ‘he’s touch starved.’

Back in the circus, he had been used to noise—the hustle and bustle of a busy and lively environment, the clamoring sounds of the animals and people coming and going to and from the tents and trailers. Then his parents died, and he moved into a silent, large space with only two people previously occupying it. Granted, he brought chaos to Alfred and Bruce’s lives—what with his stints with the numerous chandeliers in the manor, and the way he always tried to run away the first year he was living here—but he thinks he missed this. He missed taking care of someone where before he was the designated babysitter for all the younger kids, the big brother responsible for wrangling the rowdy brats so that their parents could do their work.

Looking at Tim now, the previously buried affection reserved for little tykes rears its mother henning head. So, first order of business: put some meat into that scrawny body.

“Alfie’s food is really the best, you’ll see, you’ll be craving for it in no time,” he tells Tim as they enter the dining room. Bruce is already there, seated at the head of the table and reading a newspaper, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. Dick sits down at Bruce’s right before patting the seat beside him for Tim. Tim, on the other hand, looks unsure and shy but goes ahead and takes a seat anyway and he resists the urge to coo again. Tim’s so tiny his feet dangle quite high up from the floor!

The rustling of the newspaper being folded and put down catches both of their attention, Bruce looking at the both of them with a warm smile on his face, “Good morning boys.”

“Morning, B,” Dick greets.

“Good morning, Mr. Way—Bruce,” Tim corrects quickly, blushing.

“Slept well?” Bruce asks.

The kid nods, “Uh huh, the bed’s super soft.”

“I’m glad.”

Alfred enters the dining room balancing trays filled with food on his arms. Dick could see Tim look worryingly at the balancing act Alfred’s been doing. His lips quirk up, fondness rising in his chest, he remembers when he himself had been worried about the amount of plates and trays that the old butler had been ‘forced’ to balance on his arms.

“Do you need help, Alfred?” Tim asks, practically vibrating on his chair.

Alfred chuckles, somehow being able to steadily unload the trays on the table, “It’s fine, dear boy. I am so used to this I could do this with my eyes closed.”

“If you’re sure…” Tim settles down before his eyes widen when he registers the assortment of food that has been laid out. There were eggs and sandwiches of different kinds, pancakes, cut up fruits, waffles, and a platter full of crispy bacon. There’s also a pitcher of orange juice and a carton of milk on the side, presumably for Tim. 

He can see Bruce hiding a smirk behind his mug that was aimed at Alfred and he inwardly laughs–he's also perfectly aware that the only reason that Alfred went all out for breakfast was because of their young guest. Normally, they were happy with only some sandwiches (or cereal, in Dick's case and much to Alfred's disapproval) and coffee. They wouldn’t mention it though, as they feel like it would only make Tim feel guilty.

“You get this much food for breakfast?” Tim asks in wonder.

“Yeah,” Dick replies, already stacking up his plate with pancakes and fruit, drizzling them with a generous serving of maple syrup. He glances at Tim to see the kid still frozen and staring at the food with wide eyes, “Don't be shy, Timmy. Get what you want, there's plenty of food here.”

“Um, right.” Tim visibly panics for a second before choosing to go for a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. Dick frowns, before deciding to not say anything just yet. Sure enough, Tim's first bite of the sandwich had the kid inhaling it in record time. He chuckles, Alfred’s magic cooking always had such simple food taste so amazing, so he wasn’t surprised when Tim went in for a second serving of sandwiches, this time getting some waffles, eggs, and bacon, too. And it had the added bonus of Tim getting more comfortable with them.

“This is so good, Alfred!” Tim gushes after he swallows down the food, “I’ve never eaten anything this yummy before!”

“You flatter me, Master Tim,” Alfred chuckles.

But then Tim frowns, looking between the food and Alfred. Dick stops chewing when he notices, and the pause in the clinking of Bruce’s utensils against the plate means he noticed as well.

“Why aren’t you eating with us, Alfred?” Tim asks. Dick hides a laugh by feeding himself a mouthful of pancake, and from the corner of his eye he could see Bruce grinning behind his hand. It’s a lost cause, the two of them had been trying to get Alfred to eat with them for years now—in Bruce’s case, decades. But alas, the only time Alfred agrees are during birthdays and Christmas. They’ll let Tim figure that out the hard way.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Master Tim. I have already eaten this morning,” Alfred assures. Dick sits back, enjoying the show. 

“But this is your delicious cooking, so you should eat with us!” Tim protests, a pout forming on his face.

“Really, it’s quite alright.”

Tim pouts further, looking downtrodden, “But I haven’t had anyone eat with me in a while…”

Alfred holds out for a while before letting out a breath, nodding in acquiescence, “Very well. Then I will dine with you for the time being.” 

Tim cheers when Alfred sits down on Bruce’s left and begins helping himself with some sandwiches. Dick feels his jaw drop, and he shares a flabbergasted look with Bruce. He glances at Tim, who now bears a delighted glint in his eyes as he chats with Alfred.

‘Manipulative little shit,’ he realizes.

Oh yeah, Tim would fit in just fine in their family.

—

Tim is back to wearing his suit from the previous day. Having worn what he assumes are Dick’s old clothes, being back in this stuffy old suit made him claustrophobic. But alas, he, Dick, and Bruce were on their way back to his house and his mother will kill him if she sees that he’s not ‘being proper’. 

He’s not gonna lie, he’s going to miss the homey ambiance that the Wayne Manor had to offer. It was old, yes, but that’s the beauty of it. The walls hold so much memory that Tim’s just itching to explore so that it can tell him the untold stories of its history. Drake Manor, in comparison, is fairly new—and the only stories that their house has is contained in the probably haunted and very likely illegal artifacts that his parents had stored in the house.

His musings are interrupted when Bruce pressed the button on the intercom on their front gates. The intercom crackled to life, his father’s distracted voice coming through, “Yes, who’s this?”

Bruce clears his throat, “Hi, this is Bruce Wayne. I’m here with your son, Timothy.”

“Brucie?” his dad sputters, “And Timmy? Why is he with you?” he sounds so perplexed that Tim had to wince, especially when he caught the look Dick and Bruce exchanged. 

“You know what, nevermind. Come in, come in!” The gates open with a deafening creak. Dick reaches out for his hand and Tim lets him take it as they walk the long and winding driveway to the manor. To be honest, he likes the feeling of the teen’s hands against his—the callused surface of it is somewhat grounding for his frazzled mind that seems perpetually stuck in fight or flight. It quietens a part of him that he didn’t know was noisy in the first place.

“Timothy.” Did he say that a part of him had become quiet? Well, it was noisy again! Tim inwardly groans when his body automatically straightens like a well-trained dog. Janet Drake raised conditioned him so well that her voice feels like the crack of a whip.

“Good morning, mother,” Tim greets, trying to look confident but he can’t seem to meet her disapproving eyes. He didn’t even notice that they were already at the front door.

“Did you bother Mr. Wayne with a sleepover?” Her sharp voice made him shrink into himself. When he realizes that her gaze is locked into his and Dick’s intertwined hands, he snatches his back and slid both his hands into the pockets of slacks to conceal their shaking and decidedly avoids looking at Dick. 

“Um-” he stutters, but Bruce steps in front of him. It’s probably not his intention, but he likes to think that the man did it to protect him from his mother’s wrath.

“It’s not a problem, Janet, we have plenty of space. And of course, anything to help our good neighbors when they have a missing kid.” Tim’s astonished look towards Bruce was thankfully covered by the man’s broad back. He himself would’ve believed the airy act that the Wayne patriarch was putting out if not for the short time that he spent in the comfort of their home.

“Are you implying something, Wayne?” He almost flinches at her hissed question, and did flinch when he felt Dick’s hand settle on his back. He just nods at the teen’s whispered apology, body staying tense as if ready to run at any sign of aggression.

“None at all,” He can practically hear Bruce’s smile, “Anyways, where’s Jack? He was the one who answered the intercom.”

“He’s busy, being actually hands on on our business.” the sound of his mother being progressively more upset and trying to attack Bruce verbally should have been his sign to step around his shield obstacle and enter the manor and thank and apologize to the Waynes for the trouble that he caused.

But his feet didn’t want to move an inch.

Bruce let out a full bellied laugh, bringing a hand up to his chest, “Ouch, right in the heart as always, Janet.”

“Yes, well, I am also busy, so thank you for looking after our son and I am sure you two have a full day ahead of yourselves doing nothing. You may go now,” and with that abrupt dismissal, his mother turns around and walks back into the manor. If her dress were any more flowy Tim could imagine it as Severus Snape’s billowy cape with how fast she exited their presence.

With the all-encompassing pressure that is his mother gone, Tim could finally feel his body be able to move. So he moves in front of Bruce with quick steps and bows almost 90 degrees.

“Thank you for having me for the night!” he exclaims, and then rambles, “I don’t know how to repay you, because you definitely didn’t have to do that, but you did and even fed me a yummy breakfast, so thank you for your kindness!”

Bruce chuckles, lifting his hand to gently ruffle his hair. Tim blushed once he straightens up, embarrassed but ‘this feels nice.’

“As I told you before, it’s really no problem. And I’m sure Alfred will say the same.”

“Yeah, it’s fun having you around, kid,” Dick chimes in, grinning, “I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you again.”

Tim’s blush deepens, before staring at Dick intensely for a few seconds that he could see the other frowning in concern. He was forgetting something, and that something was ringing in the background of his mind since the night before but now it was ringing full force, demanding to be noticed.

“Kid?”

Tim gasps. The picture!

“I have something to give you! Wait here!” With that, he rushes to his room, making sure that his footsteps remain light so that his running doesn’t catch his parents’ attention. He can’t believe he forgot to bring it yesterday!

—

Dick stares at the imaginary cloud of dust Tim left in his wake, “Huh, didn’t know that a kid that small could be so fast.”

Bruce snorts, “You’re fast, and you’re short,” he points out.

He glares at him, indignant, “Hey! I just haven’t hit my growth spurt yet.”

The sound of shoes running along carpeted floors bring their attention back to Tim. He was panting, looking like he just ran a marathon and he had also probably rushed to find what he had wanted to give Dick—which, the scion of the Drake family was holding a picture frame in his hands, and Dick had his curiosity piqued. What kind of picture would have the little genius be so eager to give him?

“I’ve wanted to give this ages ago, but my parents only recently let me attend galas, so I haven’t gotten the chance until now,” Tim explains once he got his breathing under control, suddenly looking shy and averting his gaze to the floor, “Uh, here you go.”

Dick takes the offered frame with a gentleness like he was holding a newborn baby. It was given to him upside down with the picture itself at the bottom and pointed at the floor, so he flips the wooden frame and freezes, feeling like his breath is punched out of him.

There was Dick and Tim. But there was also his mom and dad.

His mom and dad were standing behind the two boys, smiling broadly in their colorful leotards. They were in the big tent, and he could just see Zitka in the background. Dick and Tim were in the middle, with him hugging Tim against his chest and laughing. Tim, on the other hand, had the biggest smile that his eyes disappeared into little crescents. The kid looked to be 3 in this picture, and snippets of his repressed memory started returning to him bit by bit.

“I’ll do a quadruple somersault just for you, Timmy!”

“Wow, really!?” Tim practically had stars in his eyes, “You’re so cool, Dick!”But that day-

That day was also the day Zucco happened.

His heart aches. A 3 year old child had witnessed the gruesome scene of when his life changed forever, and probably remembered it considering what they suspected of Tim’s intellect.

What he didn’t know is that his prolonged silence is causing concern for Bruce, and crippling anxiety for Tim.

“I’m sorry! Is the picture too insensitive? Or is it because I’m in it and it’s your family picture?” Tim questions, eyes wide and frantic, “You don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to! In fact, we can forget this ever happened!” he laughs nervously.

Decision made, he kneels down to be at Tim’s eye level. He appreciates Bruce walking a few steps back and pretending to take a phone call to give them some semblance of privacy. Sometimes, Bruce’s tact can be intact.

Ha.

He rests his hand on Tim’s head, stopping the kid’s panicked ramblings. Tim stares at him with wide blue eyes as he considers what to say, gripping the frame tightly in his other hand to ensure he didn’t accidentally drop it.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I really, really love this gift, honest. I was just shocked, I didn’t expect the grief to hit me so suddenly,” he ultimately decides on telling the truth. The best thing for little geniuses is always the truth.

“Why? But it’s been so long now?” Tim didn’t seem to understand the gravity of his question and seems genuinely confused, as to how he could possibly still be affected when it’s been years since it happened now. Well, he isn’t offended, as in most cases kids generally didn’t understand death, loss, and grief well. But it might be a good idea to explain it to him now, since Tim’s a smart kid and he’s sure that he will understand the concept if it’s explained to him properly enough. Hell, it can probably help him, too, in talking about his feelings.

“Well, Timmy, imagine grief being contained in this tiny little box when the event that caused you grief just happened.” He starts to explain, removing his hand from Tim’s head and pointing at the other’s chest. “That little box is stored here, in your heart. And because that box is so tiny the grief is squished into all its sides, trying to get out. Are you with me so far?” Tim nods and he moves his finger to point at Tim’s forehead. He smiles when Tim’s eyes go cross eyed. “Sometimes, because the box can’t handle the pressure all at once every second of every day, grief leaks out and it can go to here. It can affect our thoughts and emotions.”

“That’s what happened to you?” Tim asks, enraptured at the way Dick was explaining.

“Uh huh,” Dick nodded, settling to sit on the porch instead, “Now, as you’ve said, it’s been years now. You may hear other people saying that it gets easier, but that’s not true.”

“Why?”

“Because that tiny box from before just gets bigger as time goes by. It doesn’t really push against the sides of the box constantly anymore, as the space around it gets bigger. But the grief is still there, it never really disappears, and sometimes the box gets a tiny little crack when something reminds someone of the event so a little bit leaks out.”

“And that’s what happened when you saw the picture?” Tim’s voice held a hint of shame.

“Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.” Dick pats Tim’s head once again.

“Why not? You said you felt grief, and isn’t grief a bad emotion? That’s why it’s in a box!” Tim protests.

“Timmy, TimTam, Timmers,” Dick singsongs, chuckling at Tim’s blush at the nicknames, “Stop that train of thought right there. Let me teach you something my mama always says.”

“Oh little Robin, it’s okay.” Mary Grayson soothes as 9-year-old Dick wails, holding the lion cub that passed away in the middle of the night. The cub was already touch and go the whole day, until its little body finally gave out in the darkness of the night. Dick was especially affected, as he religiously followed the instructions the caretakers and vet told him when they let him help to hopefully nurse the cub back to full health.

“But it hurts, mama! Why does it hurt so much? I don’t like it!” Dick sobs into her arms. 

Mary runs her fingers through her son’s hair, humming, “Honey, one thing about grief is–grief is just love that has nowhere to go.”

—

“You’re good to him,” Bruce says later when they were walking back to their own manor after extracting a promise from Tim to come back to their home. The kid seemed enlightened by the impromptu philosophy lesson Dick gave him, looking very much to be deep in thought. Dick, on the other hand, hugs the frame to his body protectively. This will have a special place on his night stand, below his Flying Graysons poster.

“Yeah, because I want to be a good big brother to him,” Dick says matter-of-factly.

Bruce stops short, “What do you mean?”

Dick stops walking, looking back at him quizzically, “He’s going to be part of the family soon, right? I don’t like him staying with the Drakes any longer than necessary, dad.” If he deliberately called Bruce ‘dad’ to soften him up to accept the idea, no he didn’t.

“What? I’m not adopting him. Where did you get that idea?”

“Alfred agrees with me.” And with that, Dick starts walking away from his stunned father.

“Dick? What do you mean? Dick!”

Chapter Text

“Timothy! Get down here and meet your new babysitter!” Tim perks up from his sprawled position in his room. He wasn’t aware that he was going to get a babysitter with his ripe old age of 7. The last babysitter had quit when he was 6, but in his defense he just wanted to try some of the Home Alone boobytraps. 

Hey, they have a big house and not a lot of security, okay?

But needless to say, his mother wasn’t happy with him. ‘ Understatement of the century ,’ he winced as he remembered the hand shaped bruises on his arm that took forever to disappear.

“Timothy!” his mother yells, impatience clear in her voice. Tim scrambles up and hurries to put on his shoes. He speed walks towards the foyer, the perfect speed for it to still be called a speed walk and not outright running. No need to displease his parents by not conducting himself as a proper Drake heir in front of a guest. Though, that went out of the window when he saw who his new babysitter was.

“Hey there,” Dick Grayson cheekily grins as he waves at him from the open doorway. Tim gapes.

“Do close your mouth, Timothy, that really is unbecoming,” his mother rolls her eyes and checks her watch. Tim closes his mouth with an audible clack.

—

Dick is worried. He eyes the multiple luggages that’s getting loaded into a van, which looks to be custom built for it to only hold luggages and boxes, and not people.

He glances at the little boy beside him. Tim looks bored, disinterested with the way his parents are leaving him alone for months. 

“Now Timothy, we’ll be gone for the next 6-7 months. I trust that you have already memorized Mrs. Mac's number in case of emergencies,” Janet states, glancing at her son.

“Yes, mother,” Tim nods.

“Well, then. Richard here–-”

“You can call me Dick, Mrs. Drake,” Dick offers. Janet gives him a glare, the disgust at the name clear on her face. Dick grins back at her, unrepentant. He does so love annoying the snotty rich people with his name.

“ Richard here will be your babysitter for a few months. Do not give him any trouble, Timothy. You know the consequences if I receive word that there was a repeat of last year.” Janet switches her glare to her son. 

Tim smiles, a deceivably serene look on his face. “Yes, mother.”

“Good.” Janet glances back at her watch. “I’ll be leaving now, Timothy. Be good.”

Why was that delivered so ominously?

There were no goodbyes, no I love you’s, no more acknowledgement towards either the son and the babysitter, no more words said. She was just… getting into her car and leaving. Leaving her small (and Tim really was quite small for his age), scrawny, 7 year old son alone in a manor, filled with very expensive things, with no security, in Gotham , for over half a year . It's really a wonder how this had just come into their attention when it seems that this had been happening for quite some time now, given how used Tim was to his parents leaving. They were neighbors , for fuck’s sake.

Some kind of detectives they were.

“Where’s your dad?” Dick finally asks in the resounding silence after all the vehicles and staff left. 

“In a business meeting,” Tim replies, “He’s going to meet with mother at the airport.”

“And Mrs. Mac?”

“She only comes once a week to clean the most used areas in the house and to bring groceries and pre-cooked meals. I’ve already learned how to do my laundry, after all!” Tim says brightly, like what he said isn’t the single most concerning thing that has ever come out of his mouth. Actually, so far, everything that comes out of his mouth is fucking concerning.

“What happened to your last babysitter, anyway?” he asks when they begin walking to, presumably, the kitchen. 

Tim grins, an amused glint in his eye, “I tried some boobytraps that I saw in Home Alone. It’s not my fault that she walked straight into some of them.”

Dick barks out a laugh, ruffling Tim’s hair. The kid stiffens, surprised. And wasn’t that a bullet to his heart. “I can tell that we’re going to get along, Timmy.”

—

“He’s all alone in that house, Bruce,” Dick rants later that night when they were getting ready for patrol. “They’re leaving him for 7 months. 7 months, B! And their housekeeper only comes once a week! In that house! A mansion ! A 7-year-old child!” He yells at the end of it. But to be fair, he had been reigning in his anger for the whole day he was in the Drake estate when he saw the evidence of the parents’ neglect. 

The manor seemed cold and sterile, with a distinct lack of personal touch in any part of the house. It wasn’t lived in, and the only evidence that someone actually owns the property is the large portrait painting of the Drakes in the main living room, and of course, Tim himself. The big windows also allow the outside world to stare in the manor, unblinking, a witness to the vacancy. No hint of laughter or sorrow. Just space and quiet—and the kind of quiet that isn’t peace, that isn’t the comforting kind—it was the kind of quiet that hums with all the things unsaid.

Even little Timmy’s room seemed impersonal, with just a handful of toys that were appropriate for his age. No posters, no decorations, just a laptop, a shelf full of textbooks and a few novels, and a tv. Not to mention the thick layer of dust on other parts of the house that can be dangerous for little lungs. Dust that slowly floats in the air like it was suspended in time once exposed to light, and where every footstep sends a whisper through the emptiness. The air hung heavy, stale—an old perfume of absence.

“And he was just… unconcerned about it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.” He remembers the horror that he felt when the full weight of their ignorance hit him. 

Bruce’s mouth straightened into a thin line, his body language expressing the displeasure that he’s feeling upon receiving the news from his son. Both of them had been worried given the events at the gala and impromptu sleepover last weekend, and given the slight frown on his father figure’s face, Alfred was concerned, too.

Though, he glances warily at the almost maniacal glint in Dick’s eyes.

“No, Dick,” he sighs, “As I’ve already said, we can’t just invite him to live with us. That would be kidnapping.”

“But they wouldn't even know!” Dick whines as he flops dramatically on the chair. “I bet you that they wouldn’t even notice that he’s gone!”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, the telltale sign that he’s getting exasperated with Dick’s dramatics. Dick had been enamored with the little Drake since the gala and the impromptu overnight stay, and considering that he had been insinuating that he would very much like a younger sibling, well…

Dick had always had a soft spot for kids. He's very good with them, actually. And for this particular kid to be so clearly neglected and in need of loving, on top of giving Dick that picture, his son fell, and fell hard, fast, and head first with a huge smile on his face. And to be honest, so did he. Timothy was a sweet kid. A bit blunt, very smart and too mature for his age, but sweet.

He let out a deep sigh, and from Dick’s triumphant grin he already knew he won. “Ask if he wants to stay the night.”

He shakes his head at Dick’s excited whoop before walking towards his Batmobile. He could practically feel Alfred radiating his approval from his seated position at the Batcomputer ( Yes he blames Dick with the names of his prized possessions). “Very good, sir. I will prepare the designated bedroom beside Master Dick’s before the young master’s arrival tomorrow, then.”

…Alfred’s in on it if he referred to the room to be Tim’s designated bedroom…

He’s getting soft. He isn’t mad about it, either.

—

“You want me to what?” Tim stares at Dick, who gives him such a sunny grin that he wants to wear sunglasses.

“Have a sleepover again! Bruce insists!”

Tim frowns, “But I just can’t leave the house. My parents aren’t here unlike last time, so no one could watch it but me.”

“Sure you can!” 

“No I can’t.”

“You can!”

“I can’t.”

“You can!”

Tim squints at the determined Dick, “...Why?”

“Why not?”

He stares at the older boy, “You’re not gonna stop, are you?”

“Nope!” Dick smiles brightly.

He sighs deeply.

‘A mini Bruce!’ Dick thinks, giddy, ‘So cute!’

“Okay,” He paused for the other’s cheering. “Just for one night though! Mrs. Mac comes in two days!”

—

It started with rain.

Not a storm—just that steady, endless kind of Gotham rain that makes the windows sweat and the streets glow like oil paintings. Tim stands at the front door of the manor, backpack slung over one shoulder, dripping slightly, as Alfred offers him a towel and a soft, knowing look.

Dick appears at the stairs, “There he is! My favorite overachiever.”

Tim rolls his eyes, towel in hand, “You only have one.”

“Still counts,” Dick grins.

He glances towards the door, “I’m only staying for one night.”

But the older boy just waves him off, and Tim didn’t argue. He just followed Dick up the stairs.

—

It was not just for one night.

By now, the room didn’t feel much like a guest room anymore.

The books on the shelves that Bruce had brought in were ones that Tim actually reads—he had fun arranging it in alphabetical order. The hoodie hanging on the chair was his. The blanket on the bed had been quietly replaced with the weighted one that he prefers, after Alfred happened to overhear him mention it.

“They didn’t even call this time,” he says softly, watching the rain drops race down on the window.

Dick, lying on the rug with his legs kicked up on the bed, looks up at the ceiling, “You surprised?”

Tim didn’t answer. Not really. Just pulls his knees up to his chest and tucks his chin down. After a minute, Dick sits up and stretches.

“Okay, new plan. You’re staying here for the rest of the summer.”

Tim stares at him, something vulnerable in his gaze, “Won’t Bruce mind?”

Dick smiles, “He’s the one who told me to ask you. Technically, he said ‘Don’t corner him. Let him decide.’ But I mean, come on. What’s summer vacation for if not for manipulating small children into staying forever?”

Silence.

“I’m kidding. Kinda.” He clears his throat. “But… you being here? That’s not a burden. It’s not a charity. It’s home. You can stay as long as you want. All summer. Or longer.”

Tim looks down at his hands, the familiar ache of waiting for someone to leave curling tight in his chest.

“They haven’t called since they’ve left,” he whispers.

“I know.”

He swallows, “They’re not even asking how I’m doing.”

“But we did,” Dick reminds him gently.

“Okay. I'll stay,” Tim says after a beat. Dick didn’t cheer. He just gives a small, crooked smile and nudges Tim with his socked foot.

— 

The library is silent, save for the soft rustle of pages. The fire is burning low, casting golden light across the room, flickering over old wood and older memories. Shadows stretch across the bookshelves like sleepy cats, and the clock ticked somewhere far away, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

Bruce sat in his usual chair, barely pretending to read. Across from him, Dick lay sideways on the couch, flipping through one of Tim’s graphic novels, his legs dangling off the edge.

They had been sitting like that for a while now.

Then Dick closes the book gently and says quietly, “Do you think… we should ask him to stay? Like, really stay?”

Bruce looks up, “Tim?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce didn’t answer at first. His eyes move towards the hall—toward the guest room that isn’t really a guest room anymore. Inside, a little boy with too-big pajamas is curled under a weighted blanket that Alfred had brought up. There’s a small stuffed animal tucked under his arm, one Bruce hadn’t asked about.

“He’s only been here for two weeks,” Bruce remarks softly.

“Yeah, but… he hasn’t asked to leave.”

That was true.

“He doesn’t talk much about it, but… he looks different. Happier. I think he’s scared to say he wants to stay. Like maybe if he says it out loud, someone’ll take it away.”

Bruce runs a hand over his jaw, voice low, “He’s only seven. And he’s already been left too many times.”

“So don’t let him be left again.”

That sits heavy in the space between them.

Bruce leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice almost too soft to hear. “I don’t know if I’ll be good at being… whatever he needs.”

Dick smiles, not big, just enough. “You already are. You tuck him in. You check if he’s eaten. He follows you around like your own personal shadow.”

Bruce didn’t deny it.

“Face it. You’re halfway to a dad already,” Dick teases.

Bruce looks down at his hands, then back up. “Do you think he’d want that? For real?”

“I think he wants a home. And someone who won’t disappear. We can be that. You can be that.”

They went quiet again. Then Dick gets up, stretched, and gives Bruce a gentle nudge on the arm. “Just think about it.”

—

Bruce stands outside Tim’s room for a moment, then knocks softly—barely a tap.

“Tim? Are you awake?” 

A beat of silence. Then a tiny voice, “Mhm.”

“Can I come in?”

Tim’s bed rustled. The door creaks open.

Bruce steps inside and sees Tim sitting up, hair rumpled, blanket around his shoulders. His eyes are wide, unsure. He crouches beside the bed.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Tim gives a tiny shrug and whispers, “I like it here.”

Bruce nods, “I like having you here.”

Tim’s hands fidget with the edge of the blanket.

“Do I have to go back?” he asks, voice small.

Bruce reaches out—carefully, slowly—and places a hand over Tim’s, “Not if you don’t want to. You can stay. For as long as you want.” His voice was firm, but gentle.

Tim looks at him for a long time, like he was making sure it isn’t a trick. Then—softly, carefully, bravely—he nods. And Bruce stays there, kneeling beside the bed, until Tim falls asleep again with his tiny hand still curled around Bruce’s.

—

The grandfather clock ticks steadily, a measured beat against the storm thrumming outside. The light of the fire threw tall shadows along the walls of the study, casting the carved wood in amber and gold.

The air is sharp with formality, but underneath it boiled something far more primal.

Bruce watches Janet take a seat on the dark leather couch in front of him and takes the cup of tea Alfred had offered her with a simple ‘thank you’. She crosses her legs, looking like the prim and proper Drake matriarch she always portrayed to the general public. Her husband, on the other hand, can’t seem to put his phone down. Not answering or making calls, per se, because that’s a new level of rudeness even for his Brucie persona, but he constantly looks down on his phone to answer emails or texts. They are both impeccably dressed and completely out of place.

It’s not a good look for them, especially with the topic of their discussion today. 

He lets out a breath, “I’m sure you know why we’re here today.”

Janet gently places the cup back on its saucer, and sets the cup of tea on the coffee table. “No, Wayne, we don’t know why we’re here today.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, dropping the act. He didn’t fool Janet in the first place anyway, the real brains behind Drake Industries’ success. “Your lawyers didn’t inform you of anything?”

“Why would they inform us of anything? They can handle it, that’s why we hired them, after all.” It seems Jack finally deems the conversation to be important enough to pay attention to it.

Janet cuts in, “Nothing substantial, I assure you. Nothing that’s important enough that you deemed it necessary to cut our trip short.”

“Hm.” He cuts to the chase, no need for senseless small talk when Janet seems determined to talk in circles around him. “Nothing about reporting you for child neglect and abuse? Nothing about child abandonment?”

Jack sputters, turning red in the face from either rage or embarrassment. Bruce is willing to bet that it was from both, but he only has eyes for Janet whose lips quirks up in a sardonic smile, “As I said, nothing substantial.”

Bruce takes a deep breath, forcibly squashing down his anger. 

“Janet, Jack.” He tries to smile, gesturing to the folders placed on the table in front of them. “All I want you to do is sign the papers that says you voluntarily release your parental rights over to me. No need to take anything to court.”

“But Tim is our heir!” Jack almost yells.

“Don’t forget, Bruce, that we can afford the same calibre of lawyers that you have in your pocket, and we have the same connections,” Janet says, leaning back and looking nonchalant. “Even if you have evidence of what you’re accusing us of, and that’s a very big if, we have the means to fight back. This will turn into a very long and very messy legal battle, and from the social standpoint we can very well spin the narrative into you taking an unusual interest in our son.”

He should’ve never forgotten how cutthroat Janet Lynn Drake was, considering he went to high school with her.

“Janet, come on, think of Tim, a 7-year-old boy that you always leave alone in your manor for months on end. It will be better for him to at least come live with us, he’ll be happy,” He reasons.

“Timmy’s just fine, Bruce. He’s a big boy now, he doesn’t need anyone watching him if that’s what you’re so worried about,” Jack argues, crossing his arms. But Bruce can see his clenched fists, the gritted teeth, the tense posture—he clearly only crossed his arms to restrain himself from becoming physical with him.

“You must understand that this will also be hard for Timothy when this gets out in the media.” Janet seems satisfied, confident that this conversation is over and that she has backed Bruce into the corner.

He sits and thinks. All of Janet’s counter arguments were true, and it is very possible that the legal battle that she was talking about could reach a standstill where neither party would win nor lose. All the attention that would be on Tim. She’s also correct in that she has the ability to twist the narrative, considering that was what she did best when they were teens. Adding to that, the situation can worsen if they manage to coerce Tim into taking their side. It’s risky, but at the same time, Bruce doesn’t want to let Tim live in the cold manor all by himself, neglected and alone.

That, and Bruce is terrified of the doom and destruction both Dick and Alfred would bring if he didn’t manage to get the littlest Drake to be theirs officially.

Jack shifts, calm washing over him. “We’re not here to discuss this. We’re here to take our son home.”

“Then you should have come home for him years ago,” Bruce says quietly, steel in his voice.

Janet’s nostrils flare, expression twisting into something hateful. Her posture didn’t shift, but her tone did. “Don’t you dare. We gave Timothy everything. Top notch private schools, tutors, travel, exposure—”

“---and silence. Empty houses. Emails instead of bedtime stories.”

Jack stands, bristling, “You’re crossing a line, Bruce.”

Bruce stands too, taller, colder. “I crossed it the day I found him forgotten on the floor after a gala.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it carries a weight that bends the room around it. “You may have given him your name, your wealth. But you didn’t give him you . He deserves more than just a legacy to inherit. He deserves to belong.”

Janet’s voice cracks with disbelief, “You think he belongs here? With you? You, of all people, want to raise someone else’s child?”

Bruce’s jaw tightens, “I already do.”

Bruce finds Tim asleep at the library table, head pillowed by an open book, a pencil still in his hand. He chuckles, quietly beginning to clean up the clutter scattered around the sleeping boy. Alfred brings in a blanket, but Bruce is the one who tucks it around the boy’s shoulders.

“We’re his parents,” Jack objects, the vein on his forehead pulsing with his heartbeat, eyes wild with anger.

“Then act like it.”

There’s a heavy silence, the kind that follows a hit someone didn’t see coming.

And then—quiet footsteps in the hall. The door opens.

“Stop fighting,” Tim whispers softly from the doorway.

They all turn. Tim stands there in pajama pants and a hoodie too big for him—Dick’s, probably. His hair is still damp from a shower. He looks smaller than any of them remember. But his voice doesn’t shake.

“I heard everything.”

Janet straightens, brushing invisible lint from her coat. In a sickly sweet voice, she looks pleadingly at Tim, “Darling, this isn’t about you—”

“Yes, it is.” He walks forward. Past the fire. Past his parents. Stops beside Bruce.

And takes his hand.

“You only come back when something’s about to be taken away. Not when I won the science fair. Not when I placed first above all my classmates. Not for PTAs. Not when I had nightmares. Not when I was lonely.”

Jack opens his mouth, but Tim doesn’t let him speak.

He looks up at Bruce, “I don’t want to leave.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. But his hand tightens ever so slightly around Tim’s.

He turns to his parents, “I’m not just your heir. I’m your son . And you don’t even know me.”

It lands hard. Brutal in its honesty. Jack looks down. Janet’s face is unreadable.

He whispers, “I want to stay. With them.”

For once, no one argues.

—

Tim falls asleep on the couch later that night, curled under a blanket, head resting on Bruce’s lap. Dick dozes nearby, curled up like a cat with a book over his chest.

Alfred stands in the doorway, watching, “Do you regret it? Fighting so hard?”

“No,” Bruce replies, voice low. In the end, they settled into a compromise. Officially, Tim is under Bruce’s custody. But to the public, they’ll have them believe that because the Drake parents travel so often and for long periods of time, they had Tim stay with their good neighbor Bruce Wayne so that he can have a more stable life. Bruce decided that this was the best course of action to minimize the attention that Tim will receive from the media. Though this had the downside where if the Drakes needed Tim for an appearance, they would get him for the duration of that time.

He glances down at Tim, the boy still holding onto his sleeve even in sleep.

“They were willing to lose him. I’m not.”

And in the silence of Wayne Manor, something like peace settles—heavy, quiet, and earned.

—

Tim lays awake in the dark after Bruce had already tucked him in.

The room is warm. Safe. Familiar in a way that still feels strange, like a dream he wasn’t sure would last. The shadows on the ceiling didn’t frighten him here, not like the echoing emptiness of the Drake estate. This room smells like books and clean sheets and something warm and old—like Alfred’s tea and the wood polish he used on the banister.

Still, Tim couldn’t sleep.

His chest feels tight. Not the bad kind, not the panic , but something else—something bigger. Heavy. Like there was too much in him and nowhere to put it.

He turns over in bed, his eyes open wide in the dark.

They’d been yelling downstairs. His parents. Bruce. About him. Because of him. And Tim had heard every word. Every cold fact. Every accusation. Every defense.

“You may have given him your name, your wealth. But you didn’t give him you.”

Bruce’s words echo in his head, clear as bells.

Tim’s fingers twist in the blanket. It wasn’t that he liked hearing them fight—but when Bruce raised his voice, it didn’t feel like noise that he had to drown out. It felt like someone was standing up for him. Like he mattered enough to be worth protecting.

That… that was new.

He couldn’t remember the last time his parents had really looked at him. Not just glanced or smiled for a photo or checked his report card, but actually seen him. Bruce did. Dick did. Alfred always had.

They remembered things about him.

And when Tim had walked into the study, when he’d spoken, he hadn’t felt small. He hadn’t felt like a kid being told what to do. He had felt… real . Like he had a voice. Like they listened.

And he’d seen it in their faces—the Drakes he wasn’t a Drake anymore he’s a Wayne now Timothy Jackson Wayne. He’d said the truth out loud, and they hadn’t argued, because they couldn’t. They were angry, of course they were, they were losing their authority over him, but they didn’t want this to get messy and public anymore than Bruce did. And Tim counted on that.

A sharp breath catches in his throat.

That should have hurt more.

Well, it did. Just not in the way he expected. Not a stabbing kind of pain, not even a betrayal. It’s more like the final closing of a door he’d been waiting at for years.

Tim wipes at his eyes before the tears could fall. Just in time, as there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Timmy? You awake?” Dick whispers, letting in a sliver of light through the open door.

Tim didn’t answer and just scooted to one side of the bed. Dick steps inside, hesitating for only a moment before crossing the room and flopping down beside him, socks mismatched.

“I brought cookies.”

Tim turns slightly, his eyes adjusting to the dark. A half-empty plastic container with a few chocolate chip cookies sat in his hand. He smiles, just a little.

“Alfred’s gonna stop you from sneaking those in eventually,” he admonishes softly.

Dick grins, “Alfred already tried, but I said it was for emotional support.”

Tim takes one and nibbles it in silence. Dick didn’t push him, just leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent, arms crossed loosely. He’s a steady presence. Solid. Like gravity.

After a while, Tim’s voice came, quiet and hoarse, “I don’t think they’ll come to take me back.”

“How do you feel about that?” Dick asks, careful.

Tim shrugs. Then he frowns.

And then—he speaks honestly, like he’s in the study again, the truth burning in his chest and needing out.

“Sad. But also… like I can breathe.” He looks up at Dick, eyes shiny in the dark. “Is that bad?”

Dick shakes his head immediately, scooting closer so their shoulders touch. Voice gentle, he says, “No. That’s not bad at all.”

Tim turns his cookie over in his hand. “Do you think Bruce really wants me here? Or is he just trying to fix things?”

Dick is quiet for a beat. “He doesn’t try to fix people he doesn’t care about.”

Tim absorbs that. And for the first time since the voices downstairs, the heavy knot in his chest loosens just a little. He leans into Dick’s side—not much, just enough to say thank you without needing to say it.

Dick wraps an arm around him and doesn't let go.

—

By the end of the first week since the Talk, he wakes to the sound of Alfred tapping on his door with a quiet, “Time to rise, Master Tim,” and the scent of real breakfast—eggs and toast and something warm baking in the oven. Not silent kitchens or handwritten notes. People.

He’s still getting used to that.

—

Wayne Manor is too big.

At first, Tim had thought of it like a museum. He tiptoed around corners, he whispered in the halls. He memorized which floorboards creaked and which portraits had eyes that seemed to follow you (he tested that one thoroughly).

But after a few days, the house starts to feel less like an artifact and more like something alive. Alfred kept flowers in the library that changed every week. The study always smelled faintly of old paper and lemon oil. The kitchen had a constant hum of activity—quiet, efficient, never cold.

He discovered secret things too.

Like the one window in the east hall that gives the best view of the sunrise. Or the sunken garden behind the west wing where no one ever went, so the roses grew wild. Or the tiny pencil marks on the doorframe in Dick’s room—faded but still there, showing his height over the years.

Tim would press his own back against the doorframe sometimes. But he never added a mark.

Not yet.

—

Bruce Wayne is a strange man.

He isn’t loud or overly affectionate. He doesn’t ask many questions. But he remembers everything. Tim offhandedly mentioned once that he liked astronomy. The next day, Bruce left an old telescope by the window in his room, with a small book tucked underneath: A Child’s Guide to the Stars.

He didn’t ask if Tim liked it. He just waited to see if it was open the next day.

It was.

Sometimes, Bruce would join him in the library after dinner, each of them reading different books in the quiet of the evening. One night, Bruce looks up and says, softly:

“You don’t have to earn your place here.”

Tim pretends not to hear him. But he remembers. He remembers everything.

—

Dick Grayson is the opposite of Bruce in every way.

Loud, bright, ridiculous, theatrical. He wears mismatched socks on purpose. He could cartwheel through the hallway while carrying two bowls of popcorn and not a single popcorn would drop to the ground. He taught Tim how to crack eggs without getting shell in them, how to win an argument without raising your voice, and how to play air guitar using a broom handle and a lot of confidence.

He made Wayne Manor feel safe, instead of just big.

But sometimes, Dick disappears.

Gone for hours, sometimes all night. When Tim asks, Alfred always says, “Out with Master Bruce.” Nothing more.

They’re always tired when they come back. Sometimes bruised. Sometimes quiet.

And Dick always changes the subject when he asks.

—

There were… odd things.

Like the door in the west hall that was always locked, even though no one ever said what was behind it. Or the faint smell of smoke that clung to Dick’s jacket when he comes home late, even though he swears he never smoked.

One night, Tim wandered down into the lower halls, where the walls turned into stone and the light grew colder. He followed the faint hum of something—machinery, maybe— and reaches a dead end.

The grandfather clock.

He tilts his head at it. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.

Still, something feels strange. His fingers itched to investigate, but he didn’t.

Not yet.

—

Tim begins to laugh more. Sleep better. Ask questions at dinner. He argued with Dick about movies. He reads next to Bruce without flinching. He catches Alfred humming in the kitchen once and doesn't pretend not to smile.

He still had nightmares sometimes, but they didn’t own him.

He still thinks about his parents, but less like a wound, and more like something he could fold up quietly, and put on a shelf.

—

“We’re gonna go on a shopping spree!” Dick announces as he slams Tim’s door open. Tim is on the bed and lying on his stomach working on something on his laptop.

He pouts when he's ignored in favor of whatever Tim was working on. Really, only a month of permanently living here and the kid already learned how to be sassy with him. On the other hand, he does love that his baby brother has been coming out of his shell more and more, but he misses his itty bitty baby Timmy that follows him like a little duckling.

“What are you working on?” he asks instead, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“Coding,” Tim says, distracted.

“Coding?” Dick asks, confused. He wasn’t aware Tim was interested in anything tech.

“It’s interesting!” Tim gushes, finally closing his laptop and staring at Dick with stars in his eyes. “I type lines of instructions in a secret language, and suddenly, I’ve built a tiny world–a game, a website, or a tool that helps people. Coding is like casting spells–like in Harry Potter!–except the magic is logic, and the wand is my keyboard. It’s like solving a mystery where every puzzle piece fits perfectly once you find the right clue.”

Dick stares, “Have I ever told you that you’re a terrifying little genius?” ‘He could make a good detective.’

The kid just smiles cheekily at him, “Anyways, what were you saying when you came into my room?”

“Oh, we’re gonna go on a shopping spree!”

“...why?”

Dick gestures around Tim’s room, “Look at this bare space! You haven’t done anything to decorate it!” He twists his face into an aghast expression, “If this room were a poem, it would be an elegy. If it were a soul, it would be weeping. And if it were mine—” he collapses on the bed, clutching his chest with dramatic flair, “I would set it aflame, if only to feel something!”

Tim giggles, so high-pitched and joyful that Dick has to smile, even when his brother pushes him off the bed. He lets himself fall off with a yell, lifting a hand to his head akin to a damsel in distress, “Oh, woe is me! My little brother hates me!”

“Dick!” Tim laughs, peering down on him from the edge of the bed “You’re so dramatic, you big baby.”

He gasps, “He really hates me!”

—

The fluorescent lights of the department store buzzes faintly overhead as Dick pushes the cart down the aisle, one hand on the handle, the other holding up a set of dinosaur bed sheets.

“Too childish?” He asks, raising an eyebrow with a grin.

Tim shoots him a look—deadpan, unimpressed, “I’m not three, you dick.”

“Right, right,” Dick nods, grinning at the pun, but tossed the sheets into the cart anyway. “Back-up set.”

They had started the trip with a list—sheets, towels, some pajamas, and maybe a lamp. Now the cart is a chaotic mix of half-practical, half-ridiculous items: two lava lamps filled with glitters and plastic bats, a Bat symbol-shaped night light, glow-in-the-dark stars, Robin pajamas, a set of Justice League socks that Tim himself picked up, and a soft hoodie two sizes too big with ‘Young Sheldon’ on the back (Dick feels that it’s very appropriate for Tim).

Was he being too obvious? He thinks not.

The previous day, he had also ordered a giant forest green bean bag and a large small army of plushies.

Dick holds up two lamps, “This lamp says, ‘I’m a responsible young man with excellent taste in lighting.’ And this one says, ‘I eat LEGOs for breakfast and I like it.’”

Tim snorts, and chooses the second one anyway. That’s a win in Dick’s book.

They continue on searching for more essentials and knick knacks that Tim could put in his room. There’s something oddly sacred about the moment—mundane, yes, but threaded with the weight of unspoken things. Of new beginnings. Of finding home in unexpected places.

He watches the younger boy’s eyes linger a second longer on certain colors—cool blues, soft grays, dark greens—and subtly steers the cart that way. He offers choices, not orders. Options, not expectations. He has a feeling that Tim has had enough of having his choices taken away from him the moment that he was born, so he feels obligated to give it back. The other decorations could come later, when Tim knows himself well enough without the constant pressure of his parents breathing down on his back.

“You can paint your room if you want to,” Dick says when they pass the paint section and sees Tim’s eyes linger a touch too long there.

Tim thinks for a moment, but shakes his head, “I like the color of the room now, thanks.”

By the time they check out, the cart looks like a starter pack for someone rebuilding a life—not flashy, but carefully, intentionally chosen.

Tim laughs when he sees the black card, “Is that Bruce’s?”

Dick holds it up, smirking, “He has multiple Centurion cards. He won’t notice this one missing. And even if he did, he won’t be complaining with the way that I’m using it.”

They move to a bookstore next, one that also sells a ton of stationery considering that Tim’s going to start school again in a few weeks. The automatic doors swoosh open, letting in a gust of Gotham’s muggy late-summer air. Tim walks in with the focus of someone who already alphabetized his home bookshelf for fun, which, to Dick’s bafflement, Tim did 

“Alright. Pens, pencils, notebooks. We can do this,” Dick says, grinning.

Tim stands in front of a wall of spiral notebooks, arms crossed. He doesn’t reach for the ones with superheroes or cartoons. He picks one up, flips it open, frowns at the paper weight, and then checks the binding.

“You know,” Dick starts after observing for a few minutes, “When I was your age, I picked mine based on which ones looked the coolest.”

Tim glances up at him and then back to the notebook at his hands. He doesn’t dignify Dick with a response, he’s already testing the flexibility of a three-ring binder.

As Tim looks through rows and rows of bags after around an hour looking for notebooks, he turns around to find Dick holding up a flaming red backpack shaped like a fire truck, hopeful.

“How about this? Practical and stylish.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, “Does it have reinforced stitching and waterproof lining?”

“...It has wheels?”

Tim gives him the kind of look only a 7-year-old old soul can give, “We’ll keep looking.”

By the end of their stint in the store, the cart is somehow full—despite Tim’s methodical efficiency, Dick may have slipped in a couple of novelty erasers shaped like fruit, a Batman pencil case (no he is not obvious), and one glitter glue set (“for emergencies”).

Tim’s arms are crossed, but his lips twitch, like he’s secretly amused.

When Alfred picks them up and they load the bags into the car, Tim pauses, “Thanks for… all this.”

Dick shuts the trunk and turns, meeting his eyes and reaching to ruffle his hair, “Anytime, buddy. You’re home now.”

Tim smiles, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

—

Dick stumbles into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing pajama pants paired with a Wayne Foundation hoodie. He staggers to the coffee machine and gets himself a cup of coffee. He’s halfway through his first glorious sip of coffee when he spots Tim seated at the counter.

The kid’s already up, dressed, and typing something on his laptop. Of course.

“Morning, Timmy,” Dick greets, groggy, “Did you sleep? I think I heard you stomping around your room at 3am.”

“Four hours. That’s already plenty,” Tim replies, not looking up.

Dick makes a face but doesn’t argue. He moves to grab cereal, but pauses when he sees the cup of coffee beside Tim’s laptop.

“Why do you have coffee? You’re seven, that’s too young for you to drink coffee.”

Tim doesn’t stop typing. “I’m eight, that’s already old enough for coffee.”

Dick bluescreens, “What do you mean you’re eight? You’re seven.”

“I’m eight, Dick. I think I would know my own age.”

Dick’s eyes find a little foil-wrapped square on the counter. “What’s that?” he asks.

“Leftover from the cake that Alfred made.”

His brows furrow, “What cake?”

Tim finally glances up at him and blinks, “My birthday was yesterday.” He says it casually, like he’s reading a weather report.

The room goes silent.

Too silent.

Dick freezes—hand on the fridge handle, pupils dilating like he just heard someone say “the Joker’s loose”. He slowly turns around, “...What.” His voice is hysterical, like a man descending into madness.

“My birthday. It was yesterday. Alfred made cake. You were with your friends.”

“Oh my god,” Dick says in a panicked whisper. He slaps a hand over his mouth like he just committed a war crime. Then he starts pacing. Frantically.

“I MISSED YOUR BIRTHDAY. YOUR ACTUAL BIRTHDAY.”

Tim blinks, “It’s not a big deal—”

But he was ignored.

“No. No. No, no, no— I’m the big brother! I’m supposed to know these things! I should’ve thrown a surprise party, or taken you to the planetarium, or—I don’t know—taken you to a museum filled with computers! Are there even museums like that?! What kind of monster am I?! ”

“...You’re making this weird.”

Dick stops pacing and rushes to shake his shoulders, “I MISSED A MILESTONE OF YOUR CHILDHOOD, TIM. I AM A FAILURE.” He grabs the kitchen phone with a desperation like he’s about to call a trusted adult, or maybe God, “Okay. It’s not too late. We’re throwing you a belated birthday extravaganza . Balloons. Cake. A pony , if you want one. I don’t know how we’re getting a pony in Gotham, but I’ll make it happen. Bruce can write it off as a Wayne Enterprises morale booster.”

“Dick. It’s fine,” Tim laughs, vaguely amused, “I didn’t want to ruin your day out with your friends.”

Dick drops to his knees in front of him, “I will never forgive myself.”

“You bought me a hoodie last week, anyways,” Tim grins.

He stares, “...You’re telling me that hoodie was your birthday present?”

Tim sips his cup of coffee, “Unintentionally. But yeah.”

Dick slowly rises to his feet, looking like he’s about to launch into a training montage set to tragic violin music, “You deserve so much better,” he says, dead serious.

—

Tim stares at their cart—overflowing with decorations, action figures, a mini telescope, a remote-controlled Batmobile, three kinds of cake mix, and yes— a piñata shaped like Joker’s head.

“This is overcompensating.”

“It’s justice,” Dick announces, wild-eyed and determined.

—  

The day has wound down. The ‘belated birthday extravaganza’ has ended—not with fireworks or confetti, but with a half-eaten cake, a few opened gifts, and the family settling in like smoke after a fire.

Tim sits cross-legged on the huge couch, swaddled in one of Alfred’s thicker throw blankets, a cup of tea in his hands and a pile of discarded gift wrap at his feet. The room smells faintly of caramel, chocolate, and wax from hastily lit birthday candles. He stares into the distance, just… sitting. Letting it sink in.

He’s not used to birthdays meaning anything.

Dick is slouched at the other end of the couch, wearing a ridiculous neon pink party hat that no one else agreed to wear. He’s balancing a leftover slice of cake on his knee and poking at it with a fork.

“So… you really didn’t say anything because you didn’t want to make it weird?”

“It’s just… people forget. It happens,” Tim says quietly.

Dick gives him a look . That big brother, are-you-hearing-yourself-right-now look.

“I don’t forget the birthdays of people I love. I just… didn’t know yours yet.”

“Now you do.”

“Now I do,” Dick says with quiet conviction.

Tim glances up as Bruce walks in, sleeves rolled up, more relaxed than usual. He carries a rectangular box in his hand—simple, wrapped in dark blue paper.

He hands it to Tim without fanfare, “Happy belated birthday.”

“You got me something?” Tim asks, startled.

Bruce almost looks shy, “It’s customary. I just… wasn’t sure when or how to give it.”

Tim opens the box carefully. Inside is a brand new laptop, sleek and untouched, wrapped in thin, crinkling plastic that shimmers under the light. Its surface was impossibly smooth, like cold glass, and it still smells faintly of cardboard, plastic, and something sterile—newness itself.

“You got me a laptop?” Tim gasps, staring at it like it’s something holy.

Bruce’s lips quirk up, “Dick has been telling me how you’re interested in coding. It’s a new WE model, but it hasn’t been released yet. It can probably handle all the things that you want to do there.”

The screen lights up with a soft chime when powered on, glowing like the surface of a still pond at sunrise. Every key is sharp and springy beneath his fingertips, their white etchings untouched by smudge or wear, waiting to be broken in. The trackpad responded to even the gentlest tap, obedient and precise. It purrs rather than whirs, fans quiet and cool, and even the startup animation feels like a promise—of speed, clarity, and potential.

This was his.

A gift—not just of technology, but of trust, of belief. Maybe of love?

It’s not flashy. It’s incredibly practical. Thoughtful.

“This is amazing,” Tim breathes, face illuminated with the sunset wallpaper of the screen.

“Now that’s a Wayne gift,” Dick comments, grinning.

Bruce sits down beside them, not too close, but close enough. He rests his forearms on his knees, watching Tim without pushing.

“Dick freaked out,” Tim says instead, staring at the laptop. Was it his anxiety talking? Maybe.

“I did not freak out,” Dick protests.

“He tends to do that,” Bruce says, side-eyeing his oldest son.

“He bought me five science kits, a telescope, and a shirt that says ‘I’m the tech support.’”

Bruce snorts, “He means well.”

“Those were very appropriate gifts!” Dick sniffs haughtily, digging into his cake.

Bruce leans back, looking at Tim in the eyes, “I should have said something yesterday. I wasn’t sure if you wanted… attention. But that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

Tim nods slowly, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

A gentle clink breaks the quiet—it was Alfred, arriving with fresh mugs for all of them, perfectly timed, as always.

“Master Tim, your second cup. Gentlemen, some coffee. And Master Dick, if you’d kindly remove that atrocious hat before I revoke your cake privileges.”

Dick grins, stands up to take a theatrical bow, and whips the hat off. “Yes, sir. But I maintain that it brought joy to the festivities.”

Alfred sighs, but there’s a warmth to it. He turns to Tim, “You’re quite loved, Master Tim. Even if we don’t always show it properly.”

Tim swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. He just smiles—small and quiet and a little crooked.

The four of them sit in silence for a while, sipping warm drinks, the fire crackling softly behind the grate. And in that big, echoing manor full of shadows and ghosts, laughter begins to rise—quiet, real.

Just a boy, a brother, a father, and a grandfather butler.

A family.

—

Everyday, Wayne Manor gives him something.

A reason to stay. A clue.

And everyday, Tim finds himself wondering—

Why was Bruce always tired, even when he claims he’d been in the office all day?

Why did Dick always have bruises in the shape of knuckles?

Why did they both look at him like he was already part of something bigger than he understood?

Something just out of sight?

Chapter Text

The sun hadn't risen all the way yet. Light spills into Tim's room in a sleepy, soft light, just enough to paint the bookshelves and the windows in the morning’s pastel colors. Outside, the garden is still misted over. Alfred wouldn't knock for breakfast for another twenty minutes.

Tim sat curled up at his desk, legs swinging just slightly off the chair. The glow of the tablet in front of him lights up his face, casting sharp shadows across his cheeks.

There's a new email.

From : Janet Drake

Subject : Happy Birthday, Timothy

He clicks it open carefully. Not because he was excited. Just... cautious. Like he always was with his mother.

Dear Timothy,

Your father and I are currently in Zurich, but we wanted to wish you a belated happy 8th birthday.

We hope you’re doing well and behaving properly. If there's anything you'd like for your birthday, please reply with a list and your preferred shipping address.

Regards,

Mother

It's a generic email. No emotion attached to it.

It’s two weeks after his birthday.

Tim reads it twice. Then a third time. There's no mention of calling. No plans to visit. Just the usual—efficiency masked as care.

He turns the tablet off and takes a moment to stare out the window. The grass is wet. Birds are starting to chirp near the hedge. Someone—probably Dick—had drawn a smiley face in the fog on the glass last night. Tim traces it with his finger before wiping it away.

He turns his tablet on again, goes back to the email and begins to type.

To: Janet Drake

Subject: Re: Happy Birthday, Timothy

Hello Mother,

Thank you for the birthday message. I'm okay.

If it's not too much, I think I'd like a camera. A real one, not a toy one. Something I can use to take pictures of people.

I don't know what kind exactly, as I've not researched well enough yet, but maybe one that works well at night, too.

You can send it here in Wayne Manor.

Tim

He reads the message three times. He stares at the ‘send’ button for a few seconds, then taps it with one finger.

The screen blinks. Message sent.

Tim sits back in his chair. He didn't expect a reply. Or if he did, it would be a tracking number in a week. Maybe less.

Still, he looks back out the window, eyes lingering on the soft dawn light over the grounds, and whispers, just to himself, ‘I want to take pictures of the things that don't disappear.’

—

It arrives in a plain cardboard box a week later. No ribbon. No note. No card to say who its from and for whom.

Alfred sets it gently on the table beside Tim at breakfast. “Parcel for you, Master Tim.”

Tim blinks in surprise. He hadn't been expecting anything today.

He's nearly forgotten the email.

The label says it's from a camera company: Canon. He opens it slowly, carefully, like it might be the wrong package.

But inside, nestled in foam and plastic, is a real camera. Compact. Black. Sleek. Expensive.

He turns it over in his hands. It feels heavier than he thought it would. Serious. Grown-up. A compact DSLR with just enough buttons to feel important. It clicks and focuses and zooms and beeps. It’s beautiful. It’s everything.

No card inside.

Not even a “happy birthday”.

But it didn't matter.

—

Tim wanders the manor grounds after lunch, the camera slung around his neck by the strap, too long for him but manageable. His fingers fiddle with the settings, cautious but curious.

He didn't take a picture right away.

He waits.

He watches.

Like always.

—

His first photo is of Alred's hands, dusting the top of the piano in the music room. The light catches the edges of the feather duster, soft and glowing. Alfred didn't even notice.

Tim looks at the image on the small screen and smiles, just a little.

—

His second photo is Dick who's fast asleep on the couch, one arm flopped over his face, the other hanging off the side. There's a half-eaten granola bar on his chest. Tim giggles behind the lens and snaps the shot.

It comes out blurry from the laughter. He didn't mind.

—

His third photo is a corner of Bruce's study at sunset. The light pours through the tall windows in gold and amber, and Tim catches it just as the shadow of the grandfather clock crosses the floor.

He stares at this one a long time after he takes it.

—

His fourth photo.

Bruce.

It wasn't planned.

Tim had wandered into the study late in the afternoon. Bruce sits at the desk, sleeves rolled up, jaw set, reading something with that deep, intense look he always had—like the whole world is in his hands and he didn't trust it not to shatter.

Tim pauses in the doorway.

He doesn't say anything. He just lifts the camera and presses the shutter.

Click.

Bruce looks up.

Their eyes meet.

Tim hesitates, looking like a deer in headlights—half expecting to be scolded. But Bruce just gives a small nod, his expression softening. 

“Let me know if you want to print some of those pictures.”

Tim grins. The first real grins in days.

—

He lays on his bed, flipping through the photos on the little screen. Each one feels like proof. Not of events, but of moments. Small things. Ordinary things. But beautiful, in the way that means they're real. 

He pauses on the one of Bruce again.

He whispers, “You don't look like someone who disappears.”

He shuts the camera off.

Outside, the garden buzzes with late summer insects. The manor creaks softly as it settles in for the night. And Tim, for the first time in a long time, feels like he was keeping something—something that would stay.

—

The rain had returned, soft and steady against the tall windows. Bruce sits at his desk, a file open before him, notes scrawled in the margins in his tight, deliberate handwriting. But he isn't reading.

He's staring at the envelope, resting atop the file.

It had been left on his desk sometime that afternoon—plain, unsealed. It's addressed to him, and he recognizes the handwriting.

Careful. Tiny. Pressed a little too hard with the pen, like the writer didn't quite trust the ink to hold.

Bruce slides a finger under the flap and pulls out a small stack of photographs.

Real, printed photos. Glossy. 4x6. Not digital copies. Not filtered or framed. Just moments.

The first one is of Alfred's hands at the piano—delicate, in motion, dust caught suspended in the sunlight. The next is Dick, fast asleep on the couch, his mouth open and an open granola bar tucked under his chin. Bruce's lips twitch despite himself.

Then comes the window, the shadow of the clock, the sunlight streaming into his study.

And then—

Him.

Bruce paused.

He remembers the moment Tim had taken the photo. The click of the shutter. The stillness after. He hadn't realized Tim had printed this photo, too.

In the picture, he was seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up, the light catching the lines on his face, a scar just visible as it peeks under his collar. His eyes looked tired—but focused. Present. Alive.

Bruce stares at the photo longer than the others.

And then he notices something. He turns the photo over—on the back, written with a pencil: “Doesn't disappear.”

He sets the photo down slowly, his chest tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name.

There's footsteps in the hallway.

A pause.

Then a soft, hesitant knock.

“Um, did you get the envelope?” Tim asks from the other side of the door.

Bruce turns toward the door, voice soft, “I did.”

A beat. Then the door creaks open.

Tim stands in the hallway in socks and an oversized shirt—one of Dick's again, probably, the hem reaching the boy's knees—with his hair damp from a late night shower. His arms are crossed tightly in front of him.

“They're just practice. I didn't mean to bother you. I just thought… I dunno. You could keep one. I mean, if you want to,” Tim mumbles in the end, insecurity clouding his eyes.

Bruce rises from the chair and he walks towards Tim slowly, photo still in hand.

“I want all of them,” Bruce says, kneeling down in front of Tim so they are eye level.

The child blinks, “Really?”

He nods, “They're not just pictures. They're how you see us. That means something.”

Tim looks down at the carpet, his voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to keep the good things. Just in case.”

“You don't have to keep them just in case. The good things… they're not going anywhere,” He says carefully. Intentionally. Like each word is a stone being laid, one by one, building something solid beneath them.

Tim stares at him, wide eyed. Hopeful. Hesitant. “Really?”

Bruce nods, smiling gently, “Really.”

Tim lunges forward and hugs him—quick and small and fierce. Like he couldn't quite believe it, but needed it anyway.

Bruce didn't hesitate. He wraps his arms around Tim and holds on.

“Thanks, dad.”

He didn’t say anything back. But the way he tightens his hold around his youngest boy is enough for Tim.

—

The photos sit in a new frame on the corner of the desk.

All of them.

A quiet gallery of moments that aren't loud or dramatic—but were real. A new kind of legacy.

The kind you choose.

—

Tim had planned it perfectly.

Alfred had said goodnight. The hall lights were off. Bruce was “working late (ha), Dick was “out with friends” (double ha). The house is quiet. He had taped a miniature flashlight to the camera. He had camouflaged his pajamas with one of Alfred’s old black sweaters. He had stuffed his bed to look like he was sleeping—complete with a wig made from yarn, which he would later find out had terrified Alfred.

Tim has his camera, two juice boxes, and a granola bar stuffed in his hoodie pocket. He'd even brought a notebook to jot down observations in case he discovered any, you know, criminal activity.

He's going to catch a photo of Batman and Robin.

For weeks, he'd suspected it. The grandfather clock. The bruises. The weird disappearances. Dick gifting him anything Bat related. And tonight, the Bat signal had lit the clouds above Gotham like a beacon.

And Tim Drake—self-proclaimed junior detective, amateur photographer, emotionally stable-ish child—is going to uncover the truth.

He sneaks out through the side garden and down the hill where the manor's old fence overlooks part of Gotham's east end. He'd found the spot by accident two days ago—a crumbling bit of stone wall with a perfect view of the skyline.

He settles in behind a shrub, pulls his camera close, and waits.

—

Movement! Fast.

Something whooshed over a rooftop across the street—a figure in black. There's a cape. A cowl.

Tim gasps, “Batman.”

Another blur leaps after him—a smaller figure in red and green and yellow—traffic light colors.

He almost drops the camera. “Robin.”

They're fighting—Batman like a shadow, quiet and brutal, but Robin? Robin was flying.

Not literally, but close.

The kid launches himself off a fire escape, flipped in the air, twice—no—three times—

“FOUR TIMES?” Tim's hand spasms. The camera shakes. His brain short-circuited.

Robin lands in a clean roll, pops up, and grins. Even from this distance, Tim recognizes it.

That was Dick's grin.

He freezes.

The world stops.

“No.”

Robin backflips off a dumpster.

“No no no no no.”

Batman lands beside him and says something inaudible. The two disappear into the alley.

Tim's camera dangles from his neck like a forgotten toy. His mouth opens. Then closes. Then it opens again.

“Motherfucker,” he whispers, “I was right?”

A beat.

“I live with Batman and Robin.”

A longer beat.

“I've shared a bathroom with Batman.”

His pupils dilate. His world tilts to its side. He slumps behind the bush, eyes wide and unblinking, voice hysterical.

“I gave Robin half my cookie last week. I gave Batman my art project to put on the fridge.” He stares into the distance, processing. “I called Batman ‘Mr. Grumpy Face' to his face .” He throws himself onto the grass. “I told Robin he couldn't do a flip on the stairs because it was dangerous. I told Robin. I scolded Robin.” He buries his face into his hands. “I drew Batman wearing a tiara. With crayons.”

A squirrel rustles in the hedge beside him. He glares at it.

“You knew, didn't you?”

—

Tim stomps back into the manor like a tiny, furious storm cloud at 2am that night. The front door creaks open and he marches up the stairs, determined and horrified.

He passes Alfred in the hallway.

“Back from your midnight stroll, Master Tim?” the butler asks gently.

Tim whirls around, an indignant expression on his face. “Do you fight crime, too?”

Alfred blinks once, “Only with silver polish and firm posture, sir.”

Tim makes a strangled noise and disappears into his room.

—

He lays face down on the bed. His camera is beside him. His mind is shattered. Childhood is in ruins.

He lifts his head just enough to mutter into the blanket, “I have to start working out. I’ve been living with superheroes and I can’t even do a cartwheel.”

—

The next morning, Bruce hadn’t even made it to his coffee.

He’s in the kitchen, in his robe, and flipping through reports when—

SLAM

Tim marches in, back straight and stiff, eyes blazing with the righteous fury of an eight year old child and sleep deprivation. Dick, already at the counter eating cereal, blinks as the child thunders toward them.

“You,” Tim says, accusatory.

Bruce freezes mid-pour of his coffee, “...Me?”

“Don’t you me me.” He turns to Dick with equal ferocity. “And you. Flipping off dumpsters like gravity’s just a suggestion.” Dick chokes on his cereal. Tim crosses his arms, scandalized. “I saw everything.”

Bruce sighs softly, the sigh of a man who had fought crime for decades but still found no armor strong enough to withstand the fury of a betrayed eight year old. He sets the coffee pot down, and looks at Dick with a tired expression. “Did we lock the perimeter?”

Dick coughs, “He’s eight, not an international spy. I didn’t think he’d climb a hedge and monitor us from a bush.”

Tim gasps, offended, “Excuse you. That bush had excellent coverage. It’s called surveillance.” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, looking for all the world like a Tired Dad™. Tim begins gesturing wildly, “Robin did four flips. Four. I counted. No regular person does four flips. And I clearly remember Dick always doing quadruple somersaults for me!” He turns back to Bruce. “And you. Batman . I told you you should sleep more and you just nodded .”

“I appreciated the concern,” Bruce deadpans.

“I gave you a drawing of Batman in a tutu!” Tim exclaims, almost pulling his hair out of frustration.

“Yes. It’s still on my desk. In a frame.”

“You left it there?!” Tim whispers, horrified.

Bruce blinks, bewildered, “You said it was a limited edition.”

Dick is wheezing into his cereal at this point, shoulders shaking.

“This is emotional warfare. You both lied to me.” Tim flops into a kitchen chair, arms flopped dramatically over the table. He groans, “I thought I was just living with billionaires. Not night ninjas.”

Dick raises his hand, “Well… technically, we’re vigilantes, not ninjas. Ninjas usually—”

“I swear if you finish that sentence I will tell Alfred what you did to the antique umbrella stand.”

Dick immediately shut up.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, Bruce sits down across from him.

“Tim, we weren’t hiding it from you to hurt you.”

“You didn’t tell me at all,” Tim grumbles.

“You’re still a kid. A very smart kid, but… it’s dangerous. We wanted to protect you.”

Tim is quiet for a moment, kicking his feet against the chair. “I already lost my parents. Not physically, but, you know. Then you go out every night and you don’t even tell me if you’re okay, because I didn’t even know in the first place. And I don’t want… I don’t want to find out from the news that Batman was—” Tim sniffles, “—then I’m going to have to ask Alfred why you’re missing—” He stops. Voice too small to finish.

Bruce’s face softened. He reaches across the table and places a hand gently on Tim’s. “I’m sorry. We should’ve trusted you with the truth. You deserve that. We’ll do better, I promise.”

Tim seems to think about it for a few seconds, then nods, eyes fixed on the table.

Dick leans in, eyes full of cautious hope, “So, now that you know… think we still get to keep the tutu drawing?”

Tim glares at him. “Only if Batman wears it to a Justice League meeting,” He says grudgingly.

Dick grins, “Oh my God, please.”

Bruce exhales, “Not a chance,” he deadpans.

Tim finally smiles—just a little.

—

Later, Bruce and Dick decided to finally tour Tim on the Batcave. Now that he's recovered from feelings of betrayal and despair, Tim’s just straight up insulted. 

“I walked through a clock!” Tim shouts, arms gesturing wildly, “I knew something was up with that fucking clock!—” “Language!” “—It’s a literal cave . With a supercomputer. And a T Rex! Are you telling me you weren’t trying to be found?!” he rants, though he did take a moment to admire the Batcomputer.

“Okay, okay, tiny tornado,” Dick says, kneeling down to TIm’s level, “Look. I promise that we were really going to tell you when you were older.”

“I am older! I’m eight!” Tim stomps, “That’s halfway to sixteen!”

“No it’s not,” Bruce mutters under his breath.

“Don’t you math at me right now, Bruce!” Tim practically shrieks, and then he pauses for breath like an opera singer preparing for his final aria. “I demand—demand—to be trained at once. I have seen everything. And frankly, you two could use the help. I’ve seen Dick’s landings in the Youtube videos I’ve definitely not stayed up late to watch.”

Dick gasps, “Rude!”

“Robin just flopped like a dead fish last week,” Tim continues, now fully pacing like a small general. “It was like Cirque du Oopsy Daisy.”

“I twisted my ankle! ” Dick yelps.

“I twist my ankle all the time in school and I still make it to my math class,” Tim says savagely, “So, when does my training start? I can do it after dinner.”

Bruce rubs his temples, “Tim…”

Tim stops. Stares. Crosses his arms. “If you don’t let me help, I’ll tell the press your real names.”

Dick’s jaw drops, “ Blackmail?! You’re eight!”

“I am resourceful,” Tim beams at them.

Bruce gives him The Bat Look™. The one that had paralyzed mob bosses and made Superman pause. Tim stares back, completely unfazed.

At last, Bruce exhales, “You can’t go out into the field.” Tim opens his mouth to argue. “But,” Bruce interrupts, “you can help Alfred with communications. Sit with him. Learn how the cave works. Maybe monitor our location during missions. That’s it. No field work. Not until you’re older and sufficiently trained.”

“How much older?” Tim asks suspiciously.

“Fourteen.”

“Twelve,” Tim negotiates, eyes narrow. Dick looks between them like watching a tennis match, eyes amused.

“...Thirteen.”

“Done,” Tim holds out his hand. They shake.

And just like that, the third member of the Batfamily is born—currently wearing glittery socks, a Pokémon t-shirt, and a very smug smile.

“I want a headset,” he announces, already heading toward the Batcomputer like he owned the place.

“Is this what having kids is like?” Dick asks quietly, watching him with a blend of horror and pride.

Bruce just sighs again, long and weary. “This is exactly what having kids is like.”

—

The Watchtower stands like a cathedral of righteousness—gleaming, stoic, and dignified. Inside, the main conference room of the original Justice League members buzz with the murmurs of gods, aliens, billionaires, and one very, very uncomfortable man in a black cape and a fluffy pink tutu.

Batman enters the room with all the grace of a funeral procession.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Wonder Woman blinks. Superman’s jaw drops, a strangled noise escaping him. The Flash makes a wheezing sound like a rubber chicken being stepped on.

“...Bruce?” Diana asks cautiously, as if addressing a wild animal or a very sleep-deprived raccoon.

Batman says nothing. He moves with grim determination—boots heavy, cape swishing dramatically behind him, the skirt of his tutu bouncing softly with every step like the world’s most threatening marshmallow. Perched atop his all-black armored suit, the tutu is unmistakably pink. Not just pink—bubblegum pink. With sparkles. It fans out in stiff layers, like it had been forged by vengeful ballet gods and bedazzled by glitter obsessed fairies.

“I lost a bet,” Batman growls, and that was that.

He sits down. The tutu poofs. The chair squeaks.

Superman makes a noise that might have been a gasp or a suppressed giggle. No one dares to check.

“Bet with who?” Hal asks, eyes gleaming with delight and barely repressed chaos.

Batman turns his head slowly, “Tim.”

There’s a pause. Then Aquaman snorts. Flash chokes. Shayera leans forward with interest.

“Your kid?” Barry whispers, eyes wide.

“The eight year old,” Bruce confirms, eyes dead.

Another beat of silence passed—then Diana, serene and godlike and radiant, smiles, “He has my vote for the next League member deserving to have a spot in this table.”

“I second that,” J’onn murmurs.

Batman says nothing. He simply adjusts the skirt (poof) and opens his datapad with the silent agony of a man who had watched his own dignity crumble beneath the bubblegum pink ballet flats of fate.

—

The Batcomputer’s massive screen flickers to life, pixelating for a moment before resolving into glorious high-definition footage. The camera showed the meeting hall, and there, stomping in with the fury of an emotionally repressed thundercloud, was the Caped Crusader himself. In a tutu.

“Hit play again,” Tim begs, curled up on the couch in his pajamas, face red with laughter. “Dick, play it again! ”

“Hold on,” Dick chokes out, doubled over at the keyboard, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I just—I need to breathe—did you see the way he sat down?! POOF! ”

“I knew he’d do it!” Tim squeals, kicking his legs in joy. “He swore he’d never break the conditions of a bet, even to an eight year old. I knew it!”

“You are a tiny evil genius,” Dick says proudly, wiping his eyes. “Remind me again—how did you trick the World’s Greatest Detective into wearing a tutu to a League meeting?”

“I told him he couldn’t beat me at chess,” Tim replies smugly, sipping apple juice from a mug shaped like a shark. “He said, and I quote: ‘If you beat me, I’ll wear whatever you want.’ Then he lost in eleven moves.”

Dick wheezes, “You hustled Batman with chess?!”

“I’m a kid,” Tim says, “People always underestimate kids.”

The video loops again. Batman entered. The tutu bounced. The Justice League stared. Superman visibly bit his lip.

This time, both of them collapsed onto the floor in helpless laughter.

Somewhere in the Batcave, far above them in the shadows, a very tired Bruce Wayne stands with his arms crossed and a thousand-yard stare. He says nothing.

He had fought crime. He had fought gods. He had even, once, wrestled a sentient plant for the fate of Gotham.

But nothing had prepared him for an eight year old with ambition and an internet connection.

He exhales. “Next time,” he mutters, “I’m raising bats only.”

—

Things had been going remarkably well for one Timothy Jackson Drake Drake-Wayne.

He had, against all odds, acquired a semi-functional family. There were hot breakfasts, emotionally constipated hugs from Bruce, and chaotic afternoons with Dick. Alfred had even labeled his name on a lunchbox for him to take to school.

A lunchbox. With stickers.

The manor is warm, the bedsheets always smells like fresh laundry, and he hadn’t had to wear a blazer to in months.

Tim had just begun to understand what it meant to be in an environment where he was encouraged to thrive—a concept foreign to most children of corporate parents and Gotham in general—when it all came crashing down.

Because one day—roughly two weeks after he found out about the bat-shaped secret, they came back.

Jack and Janet Drake. His biological parents. Rich. Polished. Slightly allergic to parenting. They sweep into Wayne Manor with polite smiles and plane tickets already printed.

“We’re taking Timothy for a quick family trip!” Janet announces, like she’d just adopted a golden retriever she forgot she owns. “And don’t worry about school, we already called ahead that Timothy is going to be absent for a week or two.”

Bruce didn’t say a word, but his left eye twitches almost imperceptibly. Dick mouths ‘are you okay’ across the foyer, while Alfred tightens his grip on the teapot like he’s considering launching it.

Tim, meanwhile, blinks once. Twice. Then says, with deep suspicion, “...Trip?”

“Yes, darling! Just a little vacation.”

— 

The black town car rolls into Raccoon City like a reluctant guest—sleek and quiet, out of place amid the sleepy streets and overcast skies. Tim sits in the backseat, legs crossed, hands primly folded in his lap like a tiny CEO. He’s wearing a suit, of course—navy, tailored, the pocket square matching the pale blue of his tie. 

He quite liked the vibes of the city—dark, dingy, feeling like it’s hiding a big secret. It’s the bread and butter for a born and raised Gothamite like Tim. But now, he looks, frankly, exhausted.

“This is a waste of time,” he mutters to no one in particular.

“Timothy,” His mother says sharply from the front, “must you always be so difficult?”

“I’m not being difficult. I’m being accurate.” Tim presses his forehead to the car window with all the drama of a Victorian orphan gazing longingly into the night. “You don’t even remember what grade I’m in.”

“We do,” His dad protests, “...Third?”

“Fourth. I skipped the second grade.”

“Right. That was the year you broke the housekeeper’s computer.”

Tim exhales loudly, “That was for science.”

“Your science disabled our security system for three days.”

“Successful science.”

They ignored him after that, as usual. Just like they had ignored the very real court order saying he now legally lived with Bruce Wayne, that their parental rights had been revoked and that Bruce had already adopted him. That arrangement was, in public, just a good neighbor stepping up to take care of Tim momentarily while the Drakes are away doing business. In private, it’s the best thing that has ever happened to Tim. Bruce remembers his birthday. Alfred makes real food. Dick gives him actual hugs. The Bats are his family.

But the Drakes had contracts and appearances. And a deep-seated need to show off their investment portfolio—including the small, solemn child they call their heir.

Today’s dinner? A meeting with Umbrella Corporation.

More specifically: dinner with William and Annette Birkin. And their daughter, Sherry.

—

The guest house that Umbrella had provided them is cold in the way all corporate-sponsored housing was—immaculate, expensive, and deeply soulless. There are way too many chrome fixtures. The walls are too white. The air smells like lemon-scented disinfectant.

Tim didn’t even pretend to pay attention to the introductions.

“—our little genius, Timmy, is already writing code,” his dad boasts.

“He managed to hack his principal’s computer last year,” his mother adds with a forced laugh.

William Birkin raises an eyebrow, impressed, “Really? Fascinating. Remind me to keep him away from the Umbrella servers.”

Tim smiles politely, “No promises.”

Annette chuckles and nudges a young girl forward—small, blonde, and pale, with neatly braided hair and eyes too cautious for her age.

“This is Sherry,” Annette says, smoothing her daughter’s collar like she’s presenting a porcelain doll. “She’s working ahead in her biology lessons. I’m sure you two will get along. You’re both the same age and already so advanced.”

Tim and Sherry stare at each other.

Sherry looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Tim looks like he’s already halfway through planning an escape route.

The adults don't notice. They had already descended into the usual networking buzzwords—biotech, patents, intellectual synergy . Eventually, someone waves toward the garden.

“Why don’t you two go play?”

“Right,” Tim mutters, “Play.”

—

They end up on a bench under a willow tree in the backyard, staring at a koi pond. Sherry is cradling a small, stuffed rabbit like it was a lifeline. Tim is fiddling with his watch, already bored.

They sit in silence for exactly one minute and thirty-nine seconds.

Then—

“My parents don’t actually like me,” Sherry says matter-of-factly, petting the rabbit’s ears.

Tim blinks, surprised, “Yeah. Same.”

“They just make me study all the time.”

“Mine makes me sit through business dinners and pretend I’m their branding.”

Sherry wrinkles her nose, “That’s weird.”

Tim nods, “So is making your kid practice violin at midnight because it’ll look good on college applications. I was 6.”

Sherry gives a tiny smile, “Want to see the lab rats?”

Tim raises an eyebrow, “Yes. Obviously.”

—

An hour later, a very concerned intern finds them inside a restricted section of the Birkin lab facility. Sherry had stolen her mom’s badge. Tim had reprogrammed the security lock armed with a hairpin and all the mischievousness two neglected kids could muster.

The kids are sitting on the floor with a group of clean, very well-fed lab mice. Tim had named one “Alfred.” Sherry, meanwhile, is feeding another one cheese puffs.

“...They’re cute,” she says.

“Cuter than some of the board members I’ve met.”

She giggles.

The intern stands frozen for a full thirty seconds before whispering, “I’m not paid enough for this,” and quietly retreating.

—

Back in the guest house hours later, as his parents drone about “how well it all went,” Tim stares out the window, lips twitching with a rare smile. He has a mouse-shaped smudge on his pant leg, and cheese puffs powder sticking to the fabric. His hair is tousled from crawling under security gates.

And in his pocket is a folded note, written in very neat, determined handwriting.

“Next time, I’ll show you the virus room. —Sherry”

And below that, is a phone number.

Tim tucks it away carefully.

Maybe Raccoon City isn’t so bad, after all.

Chapter Text

The skies over Raccoon City are simmering with the heavy indifference of a long, brooding, hot afternoon. Gray clouds rolled slowly about the red-bricked skyline, promising rain but delivering only humidity. The city smells of gasoline, heat-warped asphalt, and the faint antiseptic from the many Umbrella-sponsored buildings clustered like cold steel monuments in the distance. The streets bustled with ordinary citizens rushing with their own errands and schedules and corporate ambition.

In the middle of it all, sitting in the gray couch of the Drakes’ Umbrella-sponsored guest house, is Tim, abandoned once again like a forgotten umbrella in the rain.

“Of course they forgot me,” Tim mutters under his breath as he kicks his tiny, patent-leather shoe against the coffee table leg. “Why am I not surprised? But honestly, forgetting me on a trip? That’s a new low, even for them.”

The velvet collar of his too-tight dress shirt itched. His navy blazer has a chocolate stain on the cuff—Sherry’s fault from this morning—and his tie is somewhere in this godforsaken house, last seen tied to a doorknob because they’d pretended it was a tripwire for invisible assassins. His hair sticks out at odd angles, wild from his irritation.

The Drake couple had left earlier this morning in a meeting with the Birkins on their supposed last day there. Tim, the foolish boy that he is, believed them when they said that they would be back to pick him up, then they’ll head to the airport.

Tim had waited. And waited. It’s now early evening. And realized .

He’s alone. And the Drakes well and truly fucked up. 

So, naturally, he pulls out the communicator from his blazer pocket that Bruce insisted he bring in case of emergencies. He doesn’t cry. He’s too angry to cry, or maybe too used to it. Either way, he feels the slow, simmering anger of Are you fucking kidding me? rise up in his chest like an overdue fire alarm.

“Bruce? You there?”

The comm crackles softly in his ear before he hears Bruce’s low voice, “Tim? What’s the emergency?”

Well, he was asked, so he decided to be blunt. “My lovely parents left me behind in Raccoon City at a guest house sponsored by a pharmaceutical research facility. I think this qualifies as an emergency?”

A pause.

“...Where?” 

“Raccoon City. Guest house. I think in the middle of town?” He offers.

“I’m coming to get you,” Bruce replies immediately, voice not quite hiding the rage that he’s feeling.

“Cool,” Tim says, “Can you also bring, like… therapy? And maybe a snack? And maybe a copy of How Not to Forget Your Child: A Guide for Business Parents.”

Before Bruce can respond, a third voice pops into the channel. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY LEFT YOU?”

“Oh no,” Tim winces.

“THEY LEFT AN 8-YEAR-OLD ALONE IN THE CITY! THINK OF WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO HIM!”

“Dick. Please. Your indoor voice.” He hears Bruce speak.

“BRUCE. BRUCE, START THE JET. START THE JET RIGHT NOW. I’M BRINGING A GLITTER GRENADE AND A SHOVEL. I’M GONNA DIG UP THEIR PARENTING LICENSE AND BURN IT.”

“Why are you like this,” Tim despairs, burying his head in his hands. “Dick, I’m fine!”

“YOU ARE NOT FINE, YOU EMOTIONALLY SCORCHED TOAST! I’M GONNA FILE A COMPLAINT. WITH GOD.”

“Dick,” Bruce finally interrupts.

“I’m calm! I’m just dramatically vibrating!”

“I’ll take the jet. You will stay here, and let me handle this like an adult.”

He could hear Dick sputter, “...He’s my little brother! I have rights!”

Tim sighs.

“I’ll just call Sherry to hang out, then.”

Dick gasps, “There’s a girl?!”

“Don’t start!”

“Tim,” Bruce sighs, sounding like the exhausted father that he is. “Just stay where you are.”

“Of course!”

Tim will, naturally, do the opposite.

— 

The clock that was mounted on the wall was mocking him with the continuous ticking sound, reminding him of the minutes and the hours since his parents left him. He grips his phone in his small hand. His duffel bag, still zipped up, sits still like a forgotten puppy by the door. 

With a tired sigh, Tim flops back against the cushions, the phone pressed to his ear as it rang.

“Hello?”  

“Sherry,” Tim exhales like it was a prayer. “Are you free?”

There’s a pause, the sound of Sherry adjusting something on her end—probably sneaking the call from under her scientist parents’ noses.

“Ugh, yes. Dad’s been in the lab for six hours and Mom forgot dinner again. I’m so bored I started naming the ceiling tiles.”

Tim perks up, “Wanna sneak out and wreak havoc with me?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Tim Drake, you poetic little gremlin. I’m already climbing out the window.”

—

Sherry arrives wearing a pink hoodie over a blue sundress, purple rain boots, and a stolen security pass from her dad’s lab. Her hair is in a lopsided braid, and her face lights up with a grin that promises violence, science, or both.

“You look like you broke out of daycare,” Tim says, falling in step beside her.

“You look like someone who pays taxes.”

“That hurts,” he whispers, offended.

“So is growing up in Umbrella. Let’s go,” she stops, “But maybe change into something more comfortable first.”

—

Tim and Sherry are small in size. But not in presence.

Sherry—sweet, kind Sherry—is not the same shy, polite, demure child she appears to be when shadowing her parents while they do business. Not when she’s around Tim.

And Tim? Well, Tim had been forgotten in a foreign city by the Drakes, and he’s pissed.

Their first stop is a corner mart, an innocent looking bodega with bad lighting and a gumball machine that sits just a little too proud and loud next to the cash register.

Tim eyes it like a general surveying terrain.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

Sherry pops her knuckles. “Only if you brought the duct tape.”

They have five dollars, six hairpins, and as they’re both considered to be child prodigies—a moderate understanding of physics.

Sherry unscrews the bottom panel while Tim acts as lookout. The teenaged boy who’s manning the cashier—hal-asleep, half-high—watches them with the mild disinterest of someone who has seen three raccoons fight over a pack of cigarettes last week.

“I think I got it–wait–wait–oh god–”

The machine tips.

CRASH

A flood of gumballs, like candy marbles from a broken piñata, pours across the floor.

The teenager stands, blinks once and gapes, then sits back down.

“I’m not paid enough for this,” he mutters.

Tim and Sherry scramble, laughing as they scoop up armfuls of gumballs, shove them into their pockets, then bolt out the door.

—

They didn’t mean to go into the pet store, but it was just next to the ice cream shop. And the sign said “Puppies!” and they’re only eight with no proper parental guidance.

“Look at that one!” Sherry points at a golden retriever puppy with one ear flopped over its head.

Tim is already halfway into a turtle enclosure.

It was peaceful for a few short minutes, but alas, it was not meant to be.

“NO!” A parrot squawks, and Sherry startles, tripping over her own feet and backward into a display of hamster cages.

Tim lunges to help.

The parrot screams again.

The dogs begin barking.

Then the fire alarm went off.

And somehow, all three turtles that were previously in an enclosure are now in the aisle.

They left the store with a rubber mouse, a receipt that printed “Thank you for shopping with us!” and a very guilty conscience.

—

It’s past 8pm by the time they wander into a pharmacy and find a rotating sunglasses rack. They try on five pairs each.

Then Sherry finds a pregnancy test and turns to Tim with a wide grin on her face. “Do you know if you need a pregnancy test? It’s for science!”

Tim flushes red and lunges to snatch the test from Sherry’s hand, only for her to avoid him causing Tim to knock over a shelf of vitamins.

In the confusion, Sherry pretended to be Umbrella security and ordered the clerk to evacuate aisle three.

Tim nearly choked laughing.

—

It’s well past sundown in Raccoon City when Tim and Sherry find themselves in the park. The street lamps cast long shadows across the cracked pavement, their golden light flickering uncertainly as though unsure whether to chase away the dark or be swallowed by it. The cicadas, by this time, had fallen silent. In the far distance, neon signs buzzed and blinked lazily in the humidity-heavy air. Here, though, it was quiet.

Almost too quiet.

But for once, they didn’t mind.

The day’s chaos—the faux sword fight using the stray umbrellas in a hotel lobby, the impromptu puppet show using stolen socks, the elevator prank that involved far too many buttons and one very angry concierge—is behind them. Their laughter had echoed through the empty walls of Umbrella-sponsored facilities, wild and unchecked like something feral that had been locked away too long. But now, under the starless sky covered by the smog of pollution, a kind of fragile stillness crept into their bones.

Tim kicks a pebble on the path.

Beside him, Sherry walks with the solemn grace of someone much older than her years, her blue sundress swaying slightly as they reach a worn wooden bench in front of the playground.

They’re both eight, both forgotten by adults who should have remembered. The kind of forgotten that sticks.

Sherry is the one who speaks first, her voice small but sure.

“This is the first time I’ve had a friend like this,” she murmured, fiddling with a tiny scratch on the bench’s edge, her fingernail tracing the splintered wood as though she could map her thoughts into it.

Tim blinks at her, then his eyes soften, voice shedding its usual armor of dry wit. “Same here.”

They didn’t look at each other, not right away. This is one of those conversations that’s easier to have shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the empty swings creaking gently in the night breeze.

“I mean, I’ve had classmates,” Sherry says, shrugging. “Tried to talk to some of them. Tried being normal. But… everyone always looks at me like I’m weird. Or like they’re afraid to say the wrong thing because of who my parents are.”

Tim nods faintly. “Yeah. People always assume you’re like them. Or worse, that you’re not supposed to have feelings because you’ve got money.”

“Right?” Sherry huffs out a breath, almost a laugh. “I’m not a lab rat, you know? Even if my mom talks to me like one. It’s always ‘Sherry, fix your posture. Sherry, you’re being emotional. Sherry, don’t embarrass the family.’” Her voice tightens with each mimicry, cracking slightly at the edges. “Sometimes I feel like I could vanish and they wouldn’t even notice. Unless it causes a scandal.”

Tim is quiet for a beat. “I think they’d notice. Just… too late.”

She swallows, her throat bobbing. “Yeah. Probably. And my dad… when he’s home, it’s like his brain is still in the lab. Like he forgets that I’m even there. Once, I told him I won a science competition, and he said, ‘That’s nice, sweetheart. Can you pass me the sodium pentothal?’” Her imitation of William Birkin, from the little time Tim had interacted with the man, is spot-on.

Tim gives a small, dry laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “At least he wanted you to only pass the sodium pentothal. Mine probably would’ve passed me a credit card and tell me to just buy myself something.”

Sherry turns to look at him now, brows drawn together. “You okay?”

There it was. The question that always makes his chest ache.

He rubs at his arm absentmindedly. “I’m better now.” They fall into a lull, listening for the breeze tugging through the leaves above them. Somewhere, distantly, a car horn blares like a reminder that life is moving on, with or without them. Then, because something in her face told him he could—told him he should—he added, “I didn’t tell you earlier, but… I’m not just a Drake.”

Sherry tilts her head, “What do you mean?”

He leans back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Legally, I’m Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. Bruce Wayne adopted me recently.”

Sherry’s eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly. “Wait—like Wayne Enterprises Bruce Wayne?!”

Tim flinches, “Shh!”

She slaps her hands over her mouth in theatrical horror, eyes dancing with excitement. “Sorry. Sorry. I just—wow.”

Tim chuckles now, a little sheepish. “Yeah. That Bruce Wayne. But no one knows. It’s a secret so the public doesn’t know. It’s a… safety thing. And the Drakes didn’t really… fight it, like, actually fight it. I think they were relieved, actually. As long as I still show up for photo ops and dinners, they’re happy to pretend they never had to parent. They only really want a prop to parade around people—the Drake heir. I used to think that maybe if I was perfect, they’d start to care. But I stopped trying.”

Sherry is quiet for a long moment. “That’s not fair,” she says quietly.

He shrugs, not because it didn’t hurt, but because it hurt so much that he’d just become numb to it. “I stopped expecting ‘fair’ a while ago. A few years now, actually.”

Sherry stares at him, “You know, my parents gave me a list of things I had to talk about when I met you. Like, ‘ask him about global trade,'" she scoffs, picking at the hem of her dress. “What kid wants to talk about international shipping routes?”

“Okay, well, I do,” Tim admits, “But that’s only because I think the Drakes are laundering money through six shell companies in Norway.”

Sherry blinks, then giggles, “You’re so weird.”

Tim grins.

A beat passes.

“Is it… better? With the Waynes?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, it is,” Tim says, voice low. “Alfred makes the best hot chocolate. Dick gives the best piggyback rides. And Bruce—he’s trying. It’s weird, but it’s a good weird. And he doesn’t even flinch when I call him ‘Dad’ a few times.”

Sherry gives him a smile, small and luminous in the dark. “You deserve that. All of it.”

“So do you,” Tim replies, “You deserve someone who sees you.”

She sniffles, swiping quickly at her eyes. “Well, I see you too. Even if you’re, like, super rich now.”

They both laugh, the sound soft but real, not the practiced kind that they use around guests in nice suits.

“You know,” Sherry whispers after a moment, “You’re really lucky, Tim.”

“I am,” Tim says softly, “And I still don’t feel like I deserve it. Like they’ll change their minds any day.”

“They won’t,” she says, and her voice is suddenly very sure. “They won’t, Tim. not if they’re anything like how you talk about them.”

Tim glances at her, “You could have that too, you know. Not them specifically—Bruce would implode if he adopted another genius kid—but someone who looks at you like you’re more than a tool or a puppet.”

Sherry quickly looks away, and Tim could see the shine in her eyes before she blinks it back. “I don’t think anyone like that exists for people like me.”

“Well then,” Tim declares, hopping off the bench and dramatically bowing, “you’re in luck, because I exist.”

She snorts, wiping her eyes before standing beside him, “You’re so dramatic.”

“Dick says it’s genetic. He blames the circus.”

Sherry smiles again, and this time, it reaches her eyes. “Thanks, Tim.”

“Always,” he says, and bumps her shoulder with his.

It’s late. The stars still hadn’t peeked through the thick smog, and the lamps are flickering more erratically, but neither of them makes a move to leave. Because for a moment—neither of them feels forgotten. They have each other. And that was enough.

For now.

—

Tim is very calm for someone being escorted by two flustered officers under a flickering lamp post, his hands deep in the pockets of a hoodie three sizes too big and soaked at the cuffs from park sprinklers. Beside him, Sherry is pouting like a cat caught in the rain, arms crossed, boots scuffed with dirt from the rosebushes they’d been crawling under ten minutes ago.

“Again,” she mutters through gritted teeth, “I told you the cops were gonna show up. That woman with the poodle looked way too responsible.”

“I thought she’d be more concerned about you throwing dirt and stuff at me,” Tim deadpans, “Which, by the way, hurt. Pinecones are not meant to be thrown.”

“It was supposed to be symbolic,” Sherry mutters, “I was expressing my frustration.”

“Symbolism is overrated.”

They’re guided into the lobby of the Raccoon City Police Department, a building that looks more like a museum than a place that arrested people. The grand double doors creak open and the moment they step inside, Tim is assaulted by a sense of heavy grandeur—not awe, but weight, like walking into a church where someone had died, and nobody dared move the furniture since.

The floors are polished marble, and echoed faintly with each step. A giant bronze statue—a Goddess statue, Tim assumes—is placed in the center of the main hall. The glass ceiling above them cast distorted colors over her face like a melted halo.

“Huh,” Tim says quietly, “Gotham’s precincts are dirtier but somehow less… haunted.”

“It’s the lighting,” Sherry replies sagely, squinting up at a row of ancient chandeliers. “And the weird-ass music. Why is it so echoey here?”

“I think the building itself is sighing.”

The officers leads them past the unmanned reception desk and down a corridor lined with framed paintings and portraits that all had one thing in common: they were unsettling. Either the subjects stared too directly into your soul or were painted in colors that makes Tim think of old cheese. There’s one of a police commissioner that someone had given googly eyes and a sticky note mustache.

Tim considers it art.

They didn’t go far before a side door opens with a creak that was honestly too theatrical, and the chief—Chief Brian Irons as he eventually introduced himself—appears, looking like someone had interrupted his nightly ritual of bathing in disdain and cheap bourbon. He’s large, red in the face, and his tie is too tight around his thick neck. His beady eyes immediately lock into Sherry and he scowls.

“Oh, for—” he mutters, “Not again, Miss Birkin. Do your parents think we’re a free babysitting service? Because this is not—”

“This one’s different, sir,” one of the officers says, “Found them together. No adults in sight. Thought we should bring ‘em in.”

Irons turns and looks at Tim properly for the first time. His expressions shift with comical abruptness, like someone hit a switch. He blinks once. Twice. 

“...You’re not from here," he says slowly.

“No, sir,” Tim replies, hands still in his pockets, posture unimpressed. “Timothy Drake, sir. My parents were staying at the Umbrella guest house.”

“Drake,” Irons repeated, his eyes widening slightly. “As in Drake Industries ?”

Tim tilts his head in that innocent, rich kid way that says, Yes, and I’m very aware of the tax bracket you live in .

“I believe there’s only one,” he says coolly.

A beat passes. Then Chief Irons suddenly turns into someone else entirely. His expression warms, his shoulders loosens, and his voice smooths out like he’d taken a course on politeness in two seconds.

“Well, Mr. Drake, welcome to Raccoon City. So sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll see to it personally that you’re kept comfortable while we contact your family.”

Tim did not miss the way Sherry rolled her eyes so hard that they nearly fell out.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, “It’s like watching a snake wear a tuxedo.”

—

Tim doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. It’s just a room. Just a simple waiting room.

Gotham has worse, because Gotham was weird .

But this?

This room is creeping him out.

Even Sherry is quiet, and Sherry is never quiet, well, at least with him. She sits beside him on the cushioned bench, chewing nervously on a cherry lollipop one of the kinder officers had handed her. Her shoes don't touch the floor. They swing lightly, like the room is too still and her legs are trying to make noise for it.

It doesn’t help.

The silence has weight .

The walls are painted this soft, beige, trying-to-be-friendly color, just warm enough to pretend that the management cares. But the longer Tim stares, the more it looks like dried out bone. Pale. Scrubbed. Like it’s hiding something. Like it had seen something.

Two statues flank the far corners. Women in long stone robes, arms outstretched like they were offering something—or mourning something. Their faces are worn smooth, but their eyes have been polished until they gleam. Too clean. Too alert. Like they know he’s watching.

“Do you think they move when we’re not looking?” Tim whispers.

Sherry stops mid-swing of her legs. “Don’t,” she hisses, then pops the lollipop back in her mouth like it’s a defense spell.

He smirks faintly.

There’s a clock above the double doors. Old-fashioned. Analog. The kind with a second hand that ticked in quick, dramatic jerks. But it hadn’t moved since Irons left them there, Tim checked. Twice.

The light above them keeps flickering once every thirty seconds, like it was timing something. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling made this quiet click sound that grated in his teeth.

The chairs are arranged in a neat half-circle around a low wooden table, which holds three outdated magazines and a potted plant that looks like it had died during the Cold war. There’s also a candy bowl full of peppermints. Tim didn’t trust it. Sherry had taken one, but she hadn’t eaten it. Just held it like a little white-and-red token. 

The art on the walls isn’t any better.

One painting shows a field of grass beneath an overcast sky. Peaceful, at first glance—until he notices the shape in the distance. A small figure, back turned, dress blowing in the wind. No face. No eyes. Another portrait, this one in black and white, features a family all dressed up and smiling. But their smiles didn’t reach their eyes. Because their eyes aren’t there. Just blurs. Smudges . Like someone had wiped them off on purpose.

“This room sucks,” Sherry mumbles, hunching lower. “Why are we still here?”

Tim didn’t answer. He’s busy staring at the far statue again. The longer he looked, the more certain he became that its hand had moved.

And then—

The doors creak open.

Sherry’s head shoots up, fast, like a bird hearing danger. Tim straightens, eyes sharp.

Annette and William Birkin walk in. The only acknowledgement they give Tim is a nod, before their eyes land on Sherry.

“Sweetheart,” Annette says with brittle warmth. “Come on. We’re going home.”

William just looks at Sherry like she’s a test result he was relieved to come back clean.

Sherry didn’t move.

Not until Tim gives her a tiny nudge.

She slowly slides off the bench. When she passes him, she doesn’t look back—just let her fingers brush his once, sticky from the lollipop. It’s the softest kind of goodbye.

Tim watches them leave.

The doors close with a thud.

He’s alone now.

Just him, the clock that didn’t tick, the statues that probably blink, and a painting of a faceless girl who hadn’t left the field in eighty years.

—

The silence doesn’t creep in—it slams.

Tim’s sneakers swing idly beneath the waiting room bench. Sherry’s warmth still lingers beside him—a slight indentation in the bench cushion where she sat, a piece of lint from her jacket clinging to the hem of his sleeve. 

He tries to sit still. Really, he does.

But something fidgets inside him, like a thousand tiny bugs skittering beneath his skin. His fingers toy with the threads on his hoodie’s cuff. His knee bounces. His eyes dart back and forth to the corners of the room where shadows cling to baseboards and coat racks. He hates shadows when they act like they have secrets.

Dick always says that patience is the most underappreciated skill of a detective.

But Dick also never has to sit in a place that feels like it has ghosts in the wallpaper.

A soft, tired groan slips from Tim’s lips. Bruce’s voice on the communicator had been calm when Tim called—reassuring, even—but it’s been hours.

It doesn’t help that Irons hasn’t come back. Maybe they think he’ll fall asleep eventually. Maybe they think he’s normal.

Tim Drake-Wayne doesn’t do normal.

He stands quietly, backpack slung over one shoulder, and slips through the waiting room door, which doesn’t latch properly. The hallway outside yawns wide and empty. Fluorescent lights buzz above, some flickering just enough to make him grit his teeth.

The station feels different now without Sherry. Colder. Less like an adventure and more like an echo chamber for every bad thought trying to crawl into his head. He walks, not really sure where he’s going, sneakers whispering against old tile.

Maybe he can find someone high up.

Or maybe he can find something interesting. Something secret.

Because if there’s one thing Tim knows—it’s that no one builds a place this big, this ornate, with statues that look like they belong in a haunted museum, without hiding something.

And Tim Drake-Wayne isn’t the kind of kid who waits to be rescued.

He’s the kind who goes looking for answers.

And maybe, just maybe, this station has some it doesn’t want to give.

—

Tim pushes the heavy double doors open with both hands, half-expecting some shrill adult voice to stop him, but nothing came. No shouting. No sirens. Just the quiet creak of the wood, and then… silence.

The air inside is wrong .

It smells like varnish and dust and something deeper, like the skin of something once alive. The kind of room that’s too still, too warm. Where every breath feels like it isn’t just yours .

His sneakers hit the carpet like thunder in the hush. The place looks like it had been stolen out of an old movie. Wells of dark red, so deep they almost look black in the low lamp light. Heavy velvet curtains spill across tall windows like blood. The desk—massive, old, mahogany—sits like a throne in the center of the room. Its legs were carved into a lion’s paws, claws out.

Behind it, the fireplace crackles low, and above that—

Tim freezes.

A mounted tiger’s head stares back at him. Mouth agape. Teeth bared. Glass eyes polished into a wet gleam.

The plaque beneath it read: “Siberian Tiger - Khabarovsk Krai”

His eyes move over to the taxidermied deer at the corner of the office. The plaque at its feet read: “White-Tailed Deer - Arklay Mountains”

There are more like it. Deer antlers, snarling wolves, a bear’s face frozen mid-roar. The walls are littered with heads and dead things that still looks like they know they are being watched.

It isn’t just animals.

The oil paintings are no better—scenes of the hunt, men on horseback with raised rifles, animals crumpling into snow. And in the largest frame, centered like pride of place, is the man himself: Chief Brian Irons, painted like royalty. His eyes follow Tim wherever he moves.

The office chair is turned slightly. On the desk sits a cluster of photos—mostly of Irons shaking hands with people Tim doesn’t recognize.

The wallpaper behind the desk looks off. Too smooth. Too flat. He leans forward and squints— is that a seam?

Before he can reach for it, his attention snags on the adjoining door to the right. Gilded handle. Labeled Private Collection Room .

It isn’t locked.

He hovers for a moment, heart tapping against his ribs. Then— click .

Inside is worse.

Dark display cases hold tribal masks, ceremonial daggers, shrunken heads in jars. Tags written in Irons’ own looping handwriting label each item like souvenirs: “Zulu spear, 1840.” “Carpathian ritual knife.” “Aztec child’s death mask.”

And more trophies.

But these aren’t just heads—there are whole bodies now. Stuffed. Stretched. Preserved in twisted mimicries of life. A baboon hunched in a chair with glass eyes and teeth that look too sharp. A stuffed owl mid-swoop, wings extended wide. A chimpanzee posed to look like it’s praying.

Tim’s stomach turns.

He doesn’t know much about adults, but this doesn’t feel like someone who loves animals. This feels like someone who likes having things that can’t leave.

He steps back into the main office. The light flickers once. The tiger’s eyes catch the glint again.

This isn’t a workplace. It’s a mausoleum with nice curtains.

And Tim, for the first time that night, wants very badly not to be alone.

Did he run away? Maybe . But he needs to be near a trusted adult this time. 

And maybe he does need to explore more, he thinks determinedly, if this is the kind of secrets this building had to offer.

—

Lieutenant Marvin Branagh doesn’t realize his mistake until it’s already far, far too late.

“You can go ahead and explore a little, kid. Just don’t touch anything that looks like it’s more expensive than your entire college fund,” the man says with a good-natured sigh, rubbing his temples like he’s already regretting the decision. “You look like you’re smart enough not to blow up a police station.”

Tim smiles. The kind of smile that’s all innocent dimples and wide eyes. The kind of smile that usually means someone else is about to clean up a mess.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Branagh,” Tim says sweetly, his voice prim and polite and just slightly British—the Alfred influence slipping in whenever he needs to sound trustworthy.

Marvin, poor soul, gives a little wave and returns to sorting paperwork, still rubbing at a tension headache like it’s his life’s sworn enemy.

Tim walks off.

He saunters.

He’s changed into navy blue shorts, red sneakers, and another oversized hoodie that says Drake Industries on the back like a neon billboard. It works wonders on the RPD staff, who now eye him like an expensive, breakable object.

Tim ignores them.

Instead, he stares up at the soaring ceilings of the main hall. The architecture is strange—somewhere between a grandiose museum and bureaucratic crypt, with vaulted arches, brass railings, and so many cold marble surfaces it makes his teeth ache. The light is too golden, too soft in places and too sharp in others, pooling in all the wrong corners like a badly drawn map.

And then there’s her.

The goddess statue.

She’s tall and solemn, carved from white marble and standing in the center of the main hall like she owns the place with her gaze cold and impassive.

But Tim isn’t looking at her face.

He’s looking at the base.

Three circles.

Indentations, specifically. Perfectly spaced. Deliberately carved. Like something used to sit there. Something removable. Something… mechanical?

Tim tilts his head.

“Oh, you’re hiding something,” he whispers, stepping closer and crouching beside the pedestal. “You’re too symmetrical. And I don’t believe for one second that this whole place wasn’t built with a hundred secret passageways. It feels like a secret passageway.”

He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a tiny flashlight—Dick gave it to him after the Great Under-the-Couch Expedition of Last Month.

Click .

A faint blue beam sweeps across the grooves. Dust. Scratches. Slight discoloration. His heartbeat picks up, that giddy, sparking excitement only found in the quiet moments before a discovery.

It’s just like the caves under Wayne Manor.

It’s just like Bruce’s suit vault.

It’s just like home.

Tim kneels and brings his face closer, close enough that one of the RPD officers across the room stiffens, as if certain the child is about to take a hammer to public property.

He doesn’t. He just squints.

There’s definitely something here. He doesn’t know what yet—but it’s a mechanism. Something locked. The three circles are inserts. A code. A puzzle.

A test.

Tim’s pulse jumps with delight.

“You’ve got secrets,” he says under his breath. “And I am very good at solving secrets.”

The statue remains silent, dignified in her stillness and too proud to dignify his challenge.

Tim smiles again.

Across the hall, Lieutenant Branagh finishes his paperwork, looks up, and sees the small billionaire heir crouched like a gargoyle at the foot of the precinct’s most expensive statue.

He sighs into his coffee. “Oh god. What have I done?”

—

Tim doesn’t mean to find the S.T.A.R.S. office.

Really, he doesn’t.

He’s trying to circle back to the goddess statue—he has a hypothesis about the three circular indentations on the pedestal and a growing certainty that there’s a hidden mechanism beneath her smug marble feet—but the RPD building is confusing. Like someone designed it to be as inconvenient as possible. Too many hallways, too many weird door locks, and the kind of excessive wood paneling that screams municipal drama club.

Now, he’s suddenly stumbling into a space that looks like a cross between a frat house and a tactical armory.

There’s a pinboard full of case notes. A row of weapons lockers. Coffee cups stacked precariously on top of filing cabinets. Someone has duct-taped googly eyes onto a rifle magazine. The couch looks like it’s seen things, and there’s a distinct smell of leather, gun oil, and instant noodles hanging in the air.

It’s… chaotic. And weirdly cozy.

He freezes in the doorway, caught like a raccoon in headlights.

“Oh!” says someone—not startled, just surprised. A woman with short brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a voice that’s more soldier than civilian. She’s halfway through organizing a duffel bag, but straightens up immediately. “Hey, you okay, kid?”

Tim blinks. “Um. Yes?”

“You lost?” Another voice—deeper, warmer. A man with broad shoulders, an easy smile, and a red vest that looks like it’s part of a uniform. He’s got dad energy. Serious dad energy.

“…Maybe,” Tim answers cautiously. “I was told I could explore. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere near the statue with the lions.”

“Oh, that thing,” the woman scoffs, rolling her eyes fondly. “Who builds a statue in the middle of a precinct anyway?”

“Someone who really likes puzzles,” Tim mutters, almost under his breath.

“I like this one already,” the man laughs, crossing the room. “Barry Burton. This is Jill Valentine. And I think Chris is—yeah, there he is.”

A third figure appears from a back hallway, holding a protein shake and looking mildly annoyed at everyone’s existence. “Did someone steal my chair again—oh. Uh. Hello?”

Tim stiffens on instinct, but Barry just gestures like this is completely normal. “Kiddo got turned around while looking around. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Chris says flatly.

“No, you’re not,” Jill and Barry reply at the same time.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, Jill tosses him a juice box from the fridge like she’s done this before. “You hungry?”

Tim catches it. Blinks again. “…Maybe?”

“Take a seat,” Barry offers. “We’ve got Pop-Tarts somewhere. Ignore the mess.”

Tim sits, cautiously, on the edge of the couch.

Jill perches on the desk, swinging one leg. “You with someone? Visiting the station?”

“I’m staying with Lieutenant Branagh for a few hours while I wait for someone to pick me up,” Tim says automatically, polite and practiced. “I got permission to look around.”

Chris raises a brow, reading the writing on his hoodie. “Drake Industries?”

Jill lets out a whistle. “That’s some pedigree.”

“I think he means he’s rich,” Barry adds helpfully.

Chris grunts. “Huh.”

Tim is very used to adults reacting to his name with money jokes, but this is… different. There’s no malice here. Just casual teasing. Like older siblings razzing a kid cousin.

“Wanna see something cool?” Barry says suddenly, brightening. “We’ve got a remote-controlled helicopter that Wesker banned us from flying indoors.”

“He banned you from flying it indoors,” Jill corrects.

“You crashed it into his coffee mug!”

“That was one time.”

“I like it here,” Tim blurts before he can stop himself.

It earns a round of startled laughter.

“Well,” Barry says, clapping a hand on his shoulder with just the right amount of dad weight. “You’re officially adopted. Congratulations, kiddo. We’re the Special Tactics and Rescue Service—S.T.A.R.S. for short. We fight crime, save the day, and occasionally eat cake for breakfast.”

“I brought donuts,” Chris mumbles, pushing a box across the table like a peace offering. “If you’re into that.”

Tim looks at them—really looks. At Jill’s open grin, Barry’s soft warmth, Chris’s gruff but earnest offering—and something in his chest eases, just a little.

He takes the donut.

He doesn’t know it yet, but this will be one of the few bright memories he clings to when everything goes wrong.

For now, though, it’s just a Tuesday.

And he has a juice box.

—

“Okay,” Barry says solemnly, crouched down to eye level, “but the real question is: jelly or chocolate?”

Tim’s legs dangle off the couch, feet too short to touch the floor. He blinks once. Then again. His voice is quiet, but firm. “Chocolate. Obviously.”

Chris lets out a pleased grunt from where he’s leaning against the lockers. “Smart kid.”

“He’s officially one of us now,” Jill announces, upside-down on the armchair with her hair brushing the floor. “Welcome to the S.T.A.R.S. sub-junior division, population: you.”

Tim giggles—small and surprised, like the sound slips out before he knows he’s allowed to make it.

The door creaks open.

Lieutenant Marvin Branagh steps in, balancing a clipboard, a thermos, and the fragile illusion of control. He stops just inside the doorway.

Chris. Jill. Barry.

And in the middle of their chaos: Tim.

Munching on a donut the size of his head, juice box in hand, powdered sugar on his cheek. He’s clearly been laughing. There’s an open sketchpad on the coffee table, a crayon clutched loosely in his other hand.

Marvin stares. “I was gone for twenty minutes.”

“He wandered in,” Barry says, unbothered.

“He stayed,” Jill adds.

“He chose chocolate,” Chris deadpans.

Tim wipes his fingers on a napkin and looks up guiltily, like he’s been caught climbing into a fortress made entirely of warmth and sarcasm. “Sorry, Mr. Branagh…”

Marvin sets the clipboard down. “You alright, Tim?”

Tim nods a little too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“They didn’t, y’know, scare you off?” Marvin asks, side-eyeing Jill, who’s balancing a cup on her forehead now.

“No, sir,” Tim says. “They’re… nice. Weird. But nice.”

Marvin watches him a beat longer. Then sighs, “Alright, kid. You can stay for a while. Just don’t let them feed you coffee.”

“I only did that once ,” Barry mutters.

“Once was too many.”

Jill whoops in victory and throws a crayon like it’s a victory baton. “Intern stays!”

Tim doesn’t speak, but his feet swing a little where they dangle, like a child whose guard’s been loosened—not dropped, but cracked enough to breathe.

The banter swirls around him again: Barry dramatically retells the story of a turkey that nearly ended Thanksgiving, Jill challenging Chris to arm-wrestle a vending machine, Chris threatening to write them all up and then losing focus halfway through a donut.

Tim stays quiet. Watching. Listening. Smiling.

One hour becomes two.

His crayon drawings drift into squiggles. His eyes blink slower. The couch is too soft. The voices too warm. He tries to sit straighter, to stay polite, to not impose—but his body sinks deeper into the cushions.

When Marvin peeks in to check again, he finds Tim curled into the corner of the couch like he’s always belonged there. Head resting against the side, sketchpad fallen to the floor, juice box abandoned. He’s fast asleep, mouth slightly open, sugar dusted across his nose.

For a moment, no one says anything.

Then Chris stands. Crosses the room. Picks up a folded throw blanket from the top of the supply cabinet.

He drapes it gently over Tim’s small frame.

Jill quietly turns off the overhead light and flicks on the dim desk lamp instead.

Barry tucks the crayon back into the box.

Marvin watches all of it and doesn’t say a word.

He just lets the door click quietly shut behind him.

—

There’s a gentle knock against the S.T.A.R.S. office door—three polite raps, like someone is waiting for permission they technically don’t need. Marvin barely looks up from his paperwork.

“Unless the Chief’s actually on fire, I’m busy,” he says without looking.

The door creaks open anyway.

Two shadows step inside, one tall and controlled like a storm held at bay, the other lithe and sharp-eyed, scanning the room before he even finishes walking through it.

“Lieutenant Branagh?” Bruce Wayne’s voice is velvet wrapped around iron. Calm, even, impossible to ignore. “I believe my son is here.”

Jill glances up from where she’s sprawled across the floor, helping Chris color in the world’s most anatomically incorrect velociraptor.

Barry freezes mid-sip of his fourth cup of terrible department coffee.

Chris just raises a brow. “Son?”

Marvin blinks once, then slowly turns in his chair. “…Bruce Wayne.”

Dick Grayson steps up beside Bruce, looking amused but alert, like someone used to making the rounds in high-stakes rooms disguised as casual visits. He waves politely. “Hi. Sorry if we’re crashing anything. We believe Tim is here? We got worried.”

On the couch, curled under the throw blanket, Tim stirs at the sound of his name. His brow furrows. He makes a quiet, grumpy noise , and then slowly blinks awake.

“’M not done coloring…” he mumbles into the blanket.

Bruce’s entire face softens.

“Hey, bud,” Dick crouches down beside the couch. “Time to head home.”

Tim blinks sleepily at him, then slowly looks around, trying to piece things together through the fog of a sugar crash and a nap. When his eyes land on Bruce, they widen a little.

“…Dad?” he asks, voice uncertain in that tiny way that says he hadn’t actually expected Bruce to show up.

“I’m here,” Bruce says, quiet and steady. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the party.”

Tim sits up groggily, blanket falling into his lap. He rubs at one eye, then looks over at Chris, Jill, and Barry. For a moment, it’s like he’s trying to decide if he dreamed them.

“Chocolate and jelly,” he says solemnly, like a code word. “You guys promised.”

Barry chuckles. “Next time, kid.”

“Definitely next time,” Jill agrees, already pulling him into a warm, upside-down hug over the couch back. “You better visit again, squirt.”

Tim hugs her back with all the strength of a kid who doesn’t quite know how to say thank you but really, really means it.

Chris ruffles his hair with a low grunt. 

“Don’t let Chris give you life advice,” Barry teases, pulling him into a one-armed hug next.

Tim turns, eyes searching, then shuffles toward Marvin without hesitation. The lieutenant is already standing.

“…Can I hug you too?” Tim asks, small but sincere.

Marvin’s heart cracks wide open in a way he’ll pretend didn’t happen later. He crouches and pulls Tim in, steady and firm, like everything else in the world is chaos but this —this kid—he’ll hold steady.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Tim,” Marvin says into his hair. “Just knock first. Or don’t. You’ve got a key to the snack drawer now.”

Tim beams, a little sleepily, and squeezes him tight.

The hallway outside suddenly fills with the click-click of fancy shoes on scuffed tile.

Chief Brian Irons nearly bursts in, suit pressed, smile painted on like it’s been stapled to his face. His eyes skip over everyone until they land squarely on Bruce.

“Mister Wayne!” he says, too loud. “What an absolute pleasure, I had no idea you were in town—if I’d known, I would’ve arranged a—well, anything really, gala, tour—perhaps we could schedule a visit to our tactical command center next week?”

Bruce’s hand settles protectively on Tim’s shoulder as he straightens, gaze unreadable. “I was just picking up my son. But thank you for the hospitality.”

“Your son…?” Irons looks at Tim in confusion for a moment, before quickly changing his tune. Now, Irons looks like a man calculating ten PR moves in real-time. “Of course! Of course. And the boy, he’s—?”

“Doing fine,” Bruce says smoothly. “Thanks to your excellent staff.”

Chris smirks. Jill raises both eyebrows. Barry very conspicuously sips his coffee.

Tim turns one last time, blanket still draped over his shoulders like a cape. He waves at the room, “Bye! I’ll come back!”

“You better,” Jill calls.

“You still owe me dinosaur facts,” Barry adds.

Chris just gives him a two-finger salute.

And with that, Tim walks out between Bruce and Dick—tucked safely between shadows and family, blanket trailing behind him like a flag.

The office door closes.

Jill leans back in her chair and sighs. “Well,” she says, “I miss him already.”

Chris grunts.

Barry nods. “Think we can adopt him anyway?”

Marvin just stares at the now-quiet room, coffee cold, heart warm.

“…Maybe next time.”

—

The jet hums softly beneath them, all smooth steel and warmth and expensive silence. They're midair now, the skyline of Raccoon City long gone, swallowed by the clouds. The sky outside is black. It's always black above the world.

Tim sits curled into the soft leather of the private jet’s bench seat, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them like he’s trying to hold himself together. He doesn’t mean to drift. Doesn’t mean to sit too still. But his body feels like it’s been left behind—like his heartbeat forgot the rhythm it’s supposed to follow. Everything’s too big. Too clean. Too not-museum. No tiger eyes watching him. No goddesses in shadow. No pale masks grinning in glass.

Just Dick. And Bruce. And the quiet weight of coming home.

“I swear to God,” Dick says from the galley, “if you tell me again this jet can’t make hot chocolate, I will find a way to fly this thing straight into the sun.”

“There are six types of juice on board,” Bruce says without looking up from his tablet. “Pick one and survive.”

Tim breathes out through his nose—barely a huff. It’s not a laugh. But it’s not nothing.

Dick appears with a tray two seconds later anyway. “Boom,” he declares, “victory.” The tray holds a mug of something vaguely chocolate-colored and way too many marshmallows. He sets it down in front of Tim like it’s the cure for death itself. “Emergency sugar therapy,” he says solemnly.

Tim blinks at the cup, then at Dick.

And Dick winks. “Drink or suffer the wrath of my next song being Broadway.”

Bruce sighs. Deeply. Like he’s already preparing for the worst.

Tim picks up the cup with both hands. It's warm. Real. He sips. It’s too sweet and kind of powdery, but it tastes like someone tried. That’s what matters.

“You okay?” Dick asks after a moment, voice soft now.

Tim shrugs. Which is easier than explaining the pit still twisting inside his chest. Easier than describing how it felt to watch the door to the STARS office close behind him—to wave goodbye to the only adults in the city who didn’t look at him like a prize to be won. He didn’t realize that he somewhat lowered his defenses when he was encountered with adults who just genuinely wanted him to be okay.

But he doesn’t have to say anything.

Because Dick just pulls him sideways into his side, arms wrapping around him like a heat lamp. One arm around Tim’s shoulders. The other stealing the marshmallows from his cup.

“Hey—”

“Emergency marshmallow tax.”

Tim scowls. “You said therapy.”

“I lied.”

Bruce watches them from across the cabin. His gaze doesn’t waver—sharp and quiet, fixed like he's memorizing every twitch of Tim’s face. He hasn’t said much. But when Tim met his eyes back at the station, something cracked in both of them. Like a string pulled too tight for too long.

Now, he says, “You did well.”

Tim blinks at him. “Huh?”

Bruce sets his tablet aside. Leans forward, elbows on knees. His face is unreadable in that awful Wayne way, but his voice is different. Warmer. Tired.

“You stayed calm,” he says. “You found help. You kept yourself safe.”

Tim doesn’t know what to say to that. His throat pulls tight around something awful. He didn’t feel calm. He felt like glass.

But Bruce doesn’t backtrack. Doesn’t soften it with a joke or a shrug. Just sits there with that quiet certainty, like he means every word.

“…Thanks,” Tim mutters, and looks back down into his cup.

Dick squeezes his shoulder. “Also—” Dick pulls out a laptop out of nowhere, “—I’m just saying,” he says, pointing at a powerpoint slide, “if you forget your kid in another city , you lose naming rights. You don’t get to be mom or dad anymore. You’re ‘Those Two’ like Voldemort.”

Tim’s lips twitch faintly. “I want that on a mug.”

Bruce looks down at him. “You know, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I’m supposed to be in a car with emotionally unavailable parents,” Tim mutters, eyes closing, “but here we are.”

Dick cackles quietly. “He’s fine. He’s got jet snacks and trauma. He’ll bounce back.” He gently tightens the arm around Tim’s shoulders. “I’m serious,” Dick went on. “We need a standard procedure for this. Jet protocol. Emergency cookies. A coded phrase like ‘the stork forgot again.’”

“You’re not installing a glitter alarm system,” Bruce says flatly.

“But think of the drama—”

“Dick.”

“…Fine. Just the glitter stickers, then.”

Bruce sighs. The kind of sigh that had held up Gotham’s skyline.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tim says, very softly, eyes still shut, “…You’re not mad?”

Bruce blinks. “At you?”

Tim doesn’t answer, but the silence after is full of meaning — sharp, uncertain, eight years old and never quite trusting good things to stay.

Bruce’s voice lowers.

“I’m furious. But not at you. Never at you.”

Dick pauses mid-rant. His eyes dart over, suddenly quiet.

“I should’ve known something was wrong,” Bruce murmurs.

“…You didn’t forget me,” Tim says.

“No.”

“Because you came.”

Bruce nods. “Every time.”

The plane bumps gently as it cuts through the clouds, and Tim leans into the warmth beside him. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. Doesn’t remember breathing out. But the moment stretches long—safe, somehow. Like nothing’s chasing him right now. Not the feeling of being alone in a too-large city. Not even the hollow weight behind his ribs.

There’s a blanket thrown over him at some point. Dick’s doing, probably. Or maybe Bruce. It smells like cedar and starch and too many secrets.

Tim lets it pull him under.

He dreams of leather chairs and cocoa and the sound of someone saying, “You’re not alone.”

And this time, he almost believes it.

Chapter Text

Tim is curled on the edge of his bed, legs drawn up, the curtains only half-open so sunlight spills through in soft bars. His phone buzzes on the blankets, its little glow snapping him out of a restless spiral.

Sherry: you made it home okay, right?

Tim smiles faintly as his thumbs fly over the keys.

Tim: Yeah. Bruce flew us back. Dick wouldn’t stop complaining about airplane food. Tragic, really.

Almost immediately, a reply pings back.

Sherry: lol tragic. you should have heard my dad yelling when we got home. like. why did he even come pick me up if he was just gonna shout?

Tim frowns at that. He remembers Annette’s brisk tone, William’s glassy smile. Sherry hadn’t looked comfortable wedged between them, not the way kids should look when they’re with their parents. He taps back carefully, because he knows she’ll see through him if he tries to soften it too much.

Tim: That sucks. You okay?

There’s a longer pause this time before she answers.

Sherry: yeah. fine. i guess. just wish I could’ve stayed at the station longer so i could have met that stars unit you were talking about.

Tim exhales, leaning against the wall. She’s right. The S.T.A.R.S. office had felt different—safe, warm, like stumbling into a place where people saw you, not just your last name. He lets the thought linger before replying.

Tim: They adopted me. Officially. I’m part of the team now. Honorary badge and everything. You should’ve stayed, they would’ve shared custody with us.

Sherry: lol shut up. if anyone gets custody it’s me. i’ll call dibs on jill first. you can have barry. he sounds like a dad anyway.

Tim: …Barry is mine then. I accept this.

Sherry: fine, but if marvin ever bakes cookies or something, you’re sharing.

The back-and-forth makes Tim’s chest ache in a way that’s not bad exactly, just sharp around the edges. For a second he can almost forget about her parents’ shadows looming over her.

But then his gaze drifts across the room, catching on the photograph he’d taken of the statue in the police department—the goddess in marble, eyes downcast, holding something that clearly wasn’t just decorative. There were indentations, grooves meant for something to fit. A puzzle hiding in plain sight.

His fingers hover over the keyboard again.

Tim: Hey… that goddess statue in the main hall? It’s weird. Looks like a puzzle. Did you notice?

Sherry: oh my god, YES. i kept staring at it too. my mom would’ve called it “ornate,” but it totally looked like you had to put something in there. like those games where you slot gems into a door to unlock a secret passage.

Tim: Exactly. Like it’s hiding something important. Marvin said the station used to be a museum. Maybe some of the puzzles are still left over.

Sherry: ok but if you’re suggesting a midnight museum heist I’m in.

Tim: Good to know. You can distract security with your chaos while I solve the puzzles.

Sherry: RUDE. i’m brains and chaos, thank you very much.

Tim: Fine, you’re both. But I’m not changing our team name. “Brains and Chaos” still stands.

Sherry: ugh fine. but we’re putting it on business cards. official ones. glossy finish.

Tim laughs under his breath, shaking his head. The ache in his chest eases a little more. For all the noise, for all the strangeness of Raccoon City, the best thing he walked away with was this—a friend on the other end of the phone who matched his heartbeat, word for word.

—

The manor is quieter than usual.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from everyone being out, but the weightier kind—the stillness that feels deliberate, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath for him. Alfred must have orchestrated it. He’s good at that, smoothing the edges of days that have been too jagged.

Tim sits on the window seat in the small library, knees tucked up under his chin, looking out at the gray winter afternoon. It’s snowing again. The heavier, thicker clusters that slide down the glass before breaking apart.

His mind keeps looping the past two days, little flashes that are too sharp to ignore.

Sherry’s nervous smile. The way Jill crouched to meet his eyes like he wasn’t too small to understand. Barry’s booming laugh. Chris’s hand ruffling his hair like they’d known each other forever. Marvin’s steady voice, the kind that anchored him when everything inside felt jittery.

It’s strange—he barely knew them, but it feels like leaving family behind.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The voice is warm and teasing. Dick leans in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of Bruce’s sweaters that’s too big on him. Tim shrugs without looking over. “Just thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Dick says, crossing the room to plop down on the opposite end of the window seat. “Want company or should I go pretend I’m doing paperwork?”

Tim hesitates, then shrugs again. “You can stay.”

They sit like that for a while, watching the snow. The quiet stretches, but it’s a comfortable kind, broken only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock downstairs.

“You miss them,” Dick says finally. Not a question.

Tim chews on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. It’s… weird. I was only there a short time. But… it felt safe. With them.”

Dick’s smile is gentle. “Sometimes you meet people who just… fit. Doesn’t matter how long you’ve known them. And sometimes you have to leave before you’re ready.”

Tim nods, but the knot in his chest doesn’t loosen. He’s thinking about Sherry again, about her quick wave as Annette led her away. Did she feel the same way? Did she get to go home to somewhere safe?

Bruce passes by the doorway, slows, and doubles back. “You two alright?” His tone is even, but his eyes flicker between them like he’s reading a page without words.

“We’re fine,” Dick says. “Snow-watching.”

Bruce steps inside, setting a hand on Tim’s shoulder for a moment before moving to the shelves, pretending to look for something. Tim knows that’s his way of staying close without crowding him.

The rest of the day drifts by in soft pieces—Alfred bringing them tea, Dick insisting they watch a bad movie, Bruce joining halfway through but not commenting on the plot holes. The manor feels different tonight, the kind of safe that makes Tim’s eyelids grow heavy.

Later, when he’s in bed, the snow still falling outside, he closes his eyes and tries to picture the S.T.A.R.S. office exactly as it was—Marvin’s easy grin, Jill’s steady hands, Barry’s booming laugh, Chris leaning back in his chair. He tells himself it’s okay to remember. It’s okay to miss them.

And somewhere in the middle of that thought, he falls asleep.

—

Tim sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the family living room, legs tucked beneath him, staring down at nothing in particular. The fire in the hearth flickers, casting long shadows that stretch across the high ceilings, but even its warmth feels hollow.

He thinks about Raccoon City. About how, just a week ago, his parents had left him there, forgotten like a trinket shoved in a drawer and ignored until it was convenient to remember. They hadn’t even called him by name that day—just passed him off like he were background noise in a conversation between adults who had important things to do.

Tim’s chest tightens. He’s only eight, and already he understands how fragile the world can be. How people can decide you’re inconvenient, and then vanish without a backward glance. His small hands curl into fists, pressing against his knees. He can almost feel the sting of betrayal lingering in the pit of his stomach.

Why would they do that? He wonders, silent tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. How can someone just… leave you behind like forgotten trash? Forgotten. Left. Abandoned. Even if they have money. Even if they have status. Even if everyone calls him “heir” or “son” or “Timothy Jackson Drake.” None of it changes that the people who should have protected him didn’t.

The thought makes him shiver. He hugs his knees closer, head bowed, wishing for a little comfort, wishing for someone—anyone—to tell him that the world isn’t always cruel.

The sound of footsteps echoes through the hall. 

“Do I hear someone moping in the corner?” a voice calls, breezy and teasing.

Tim looks up and sees Dick leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. In one hand, he holds a small paper bag, slightly crumpled at the top.

“What do you want, Dick?” Tim mutters, voice tight, still curled around his own despair.

Dick steps closer, plopping down on the floor across from him, sliding the bag toward Tim. “Ice cream. Vanilla. Because apparently brooding in silence is no way to spend a Tuesday.”

Tim blinks at him, unsure if this is a joke. “Ice cream… will fix this?”

Dick grins, scooping a spoonful out of the container with exaggerated care. “Maybe not the world. Maybe not your parents. But it fixes this ,” he says, jabbing the spoon toward Tim’s mouth. “And it gives me the chance to lecture you about how brooding looks bad on an eight-year-old.”

Tim can’t help the small laugh that escapes, bitter and sweet all at once. He opens his mouth, lets Dick feed him a bite, and the cold, creamy sweetness cuts through the knot in his chest, if only for a moment.

“It’s stupid,” Tim mutters, “I should be over this. It’s been a week, and I’m already used to my parents always leaving me behind.” 

There’s silence for a moment, the kind of silence where it tells Tim that Dick is thinking about the right kind of words to say to him.

“You know,” Dick says, leaning back on his hands, “some people are garbage. Your parents? Big garbage. But that doesn’t mean the world is all bad. It just means we get to decide who matters. And right now, that’s me, you, Alfred, and maybe Bruce—if he stops being emotionally constipated.”

Tim chews thoughtfully. He’s still angry, still hurt, but the ice cream—vanilla, perfect, cold—melts some of the bitter edges away. He can’t unfeel the abandonment, but he can feel Dick’s warmth, his presence, the way he refuses to let Tim drown in the feelings alone.

“I… I guess you’re right,” Tim says softly, voice barely above the fire’s crackle. “They… they shouldn’t have left me.”

“Exactly,” Dick says, scooping another bite for him. “And they don’t get to decide how you feel, Timmy. Not anymore.”

Tim smiles faintly, letting the blanket of comfort and chocolate chip swirls wrap around him. For the first time in weeks, he feels just a little lighter.

Even if the world is cruel. Even if his parents are awful. There are people who won’t leave him behind. People who notice. People who care.

And right now, that is enough.

—

Tim doesn’t even realize how long he’s been staring until his eyes sting. The glow of the Batcomputer screen washes his small face pale, throwing shadows under his eyes and highlighting the concentration etched there. He’s pulled up every angle of the goddess statue he can find online—grainy photos, tourists’ snapshots, even a blurry image from an old city pamphlet.

He leans closer, tiny hands gripping the edge of the console as if the stone woman herself will reveal her secrets if he just looks hard enough.

There’s something here. I know it. It’s not just decoration. Statues like this always mean something.

In his head, he’s back in the RPD lobby, the cool hush of stone and polished marble, Sherry whispering about how creepy it looked while he couldn’t stop staring. He’d felt it then—something hidden, something waiting.

The sound of the Batcave’s hydraulic doors barely registers. He doesn’t flinch when boots hit the floor, or when the cape rustles with that heavy authority only Bruce seems to carry.

“Tim?”

It’s Dick who speaks first, his voice warm but a little puzzled. He jogs down from the landing, tugging off his domino mask as he goes. He slows when he realizes Tim hasn’t moved an inch. “Uh… hey, kiddo? Did the computer hypnotize you or something?”

Bruce’s heavier steps follow. He stops behind the chair, towering over the boy. His eyes flick to the screen, catching the grayscale image of the Raccoon City Police Department lobby, the goddess statue front and center.

Tim blinks at last, shaking himself as though he’s surfaced from underwater. “I’m—uh—I’m fine.” His voice is quiet, but not guilty. Determined. “I’m just… looking. There’s something about this statue. It’s not just there to look pretty. The symmetry, the placement in the lobby—it feels like it’s hiding something.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow, thoughtful. He studies Tim, not the statue. The way the boy’s posture hasn’t shifted in hours. The methodical way he’s catalogued angles and marked potential weak points on a digital copy.

Dick crouches down beside the chair, resting his chin on his fist. “You’ve been at this since before we left for patrol, haven’t you?” His voice is half fond, half concerned.

Tim doesn’t answer, which is the answer. His gaze doesn’t leave the screen.

Bruce places a hand on the chair back, grounding, steady. “You think it’s a puzzle,” he says—not dismissive, but like he’s testing the boy’s conclusion.

“I know it is.” Tim’s voice is soft but sure. “It’s too deliberate. The whole design of the lobby makes you look at her. Statues like this—they’re focal points, but also… locks.”

Dick’s eyebrows lift. He glances at Bruce, then back at Tim. “Locks, huh? You’ve been reading way too many mystery novels.”

“Or not enough,” Tim mutters, almost to himself. His little shoulders hunch forward. He zooms in on a photo, tapping the screen with one small finger. “Look—here. The base. That’s not just stonework. It’s—there’s space there. A mechanism. You can see the seams if you really look.”

Bruce studies the boy’s expression: laser-focused, hungry, sharp. His own jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Dick notices it too, but where Bruce looks weighted, Dick just breaks into a grin. “Okay, okay, slow down, Sherlock. You’re telling me you cracked a puzzle in a building you were only in for, what, an afternoon?”

Tim finally glances at them, eyes wide but firm. “I felt it when I was there. I just… I need to figure it out.”

There’s silence for a beat. The cave hums, the Batcomputer whirs.

Bruce and Dick share a look over Tim’s head, a wordless conversation passing between them. Dick’s grin softens, turning into something gentler, a little in awe. Bruce’s expression doesn’t shift much, but his silence speaks volumes.

The boy’s potential isn’t just potential. It’s staring them in the face.

Bruce rests his hand briefly on Tim’s shoulder. “Enough for tonight,” he says, voice low but not unkind.

Tim hesitates, lips parting to argue, but the weight of Bruce’s presence keeps him still. The detective in him is restless, but the child—small and tired—wilts just enough under the steady hand.

Dick stretches, standing. “C’mon, little genius. You can dream about creepy statues later. I’ll even let you lecture me about architectural symmetry on the way upstairs.”

Tim huffs, torn between exhaustion and obsession. But when Bruce quietly turns off the screen, the goddess statue fading into black, Tim finally lets go of the console.

Still, his mind whispers as they guide him upstairs, ' It’s a lock. It has to be a lock.'

—

Bruce sits in the cave long after the computers have dimmed into their quiet hum. He leans back in his chair, cape pooling around him, eyes on the empty stretch of platform where Tim had stood last night—small frame haloed in pale monitor light, hands curled around the keyboard as if the machine were just another puzzle to untangle. The image refuses to leave him.

A boy. The Drakes’ boy, the one who had slipped through the cracks of every gala, who knew how to vanish when adults stopped paying attention. And yet, there he’d been: utterly absorbed in a grainy photograph of a statue in a city Bruce has little reason to care about. But the way he studied it… the way he refused to move, to blink, until every angle had burned into his mind—

Bruce knows that look. He wears it himself.

Tonight, he decides to test it.

“Tim,” Bruce says, voice deep enough to echo through the cave. The boy startles in his chair, hugging his knees against his chest before he uncurls and peers up. He’d fallen asleep there again, curled against the cold metal, stubbornly awake until exhaustion won.

“Yeah?” Tim blinks, rubbing one eye.

Bruce gestures toward a thin folder sitting on the table beside him. “I want you to look at something.”

Tim hesitates, wary in the way of a child too used to being told he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Bruce keeps his tone steady, non-threatening. Dick, perched upside down on the railing like a restless crow, grins at him.

“Don’t worry, kiddo. It’s not homework.”

Tim slips down from the chair, bare feet pattering across the stone until he climbs up onto the stool Bruce has turned toward the workbench. His hands hover uncertainly above the folder.

“Go on,” Bruce says.

Tim opens it. Inside: photographs—crime scene captures, police reports, a crumpled note scrawled in shaky handwriting. A case still open, details unaligned.

Tim’s eyes scan the first photo, then dart to the second. He frowns, leaning closer. “This is… Gotham?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. Tim licks his lips, then looks up. “And you want me to—”

“Tell me what you see.”

It’s like flipping a switch. Tim straightens, pushing the folder closer, forgetting himself in the way only children can when they feel safe enough to stop performing. His fingers trace over the edge of a photograph without touching it, eyes narrowing.

“The footprints don’t match the report,” he says quietly after a moment. “This—” he points to one shot “—isn’t panic running. It’s deliberate. Like they wanted to look messy but… they weren’t.”

Bruce feels something settle in his chest. He doesn’t interrupt. He lets the boy go on.

“And here,” Tim flips another page, faster now, excitement cutting through his timidity. “They said the window was the entry point, but… look at the dust. The latch hasn’t been touched in months. Whoever wrote this either missed it or—no, they wanted you to think that.”

Dick whistles low, swinging himself upright. “Well damn, baby bird.”

Tim flushes at the nickname but keeps going, shoulders drawn tight with focus. “The note—look, the handwriting gets sloppier at the end, but not because they were rushing. Because they switched hands. Left to right.” He glances up at Bruce, eyes bright. “That’s not panic. That's a disguise.”

Silence stretches. Only the cave’s computers and the distant drip of water break it.

Finally, Bruce nods. “Good.” The single word lands heavy, deliberate, and Tim straightens like it’s worth more than gold.

“Good?” Tim asks, almost whispering.

Bruce studies him—this small, sharp boy who clings to details like lifelines, who curls himself against the cold but still burns with something that can’t be taught. And he knows, with the same certainty he once had about Dick, that Tim Drake is more than circumstance.

“Yes,” Bruce says, low but steady. “Very good.”

Dick grins, sliding down beside Tim to ruffle his hair. “Told you, B. The kid’s got it.”

And Tim—Tim ducks his head, cheeks pink, but he can’t stop the small, fierce smile tugging at his mouth. For the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t feel invisible.

—

The cave is quiet when Bruce sets down the last of the case files on the table. For once, even the hum of the Batcomputer feels subdued, like the entire place is holding its breath. He leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, and watches the boy in the chair. Tim’s legs swing absentmindedly, sneakers brushing the rung of the stool. His eyes, though—sharp, unblinking—are fixed on the evidence board Bruce put together earlier.

It makes something stir in Bruce’s chest that he’s been trying to tamp down.

Tim points suddenly, tiny hand reaching out with certainty. “The warehouse on Grant Street. That’s where they moved the shipment. Look—” His voice is matter-of-fact, not boastful. He traces invisible lines between photographs and timelines Bruce himself had laid out. “The tire tracks match. And the timing doesn’t fit with the docks unless they split the cargo. That has to be it.”

Bruce studies him for a long moment, longer than Tim realizes. The boy doesn’t notice, too focused on the map spread across the monitor. His brow furrows in concentration, little jaw set the same way Bruce has seen hardened detectives do when they’re piecing together crime scenes.

He had expected guesses here and there. He hadn’t expected pinpoint accuracy.

A part of him wants to dismiss it as coincidence. Another part—the part that has carried him through every shadow, every broken case no one else could solve—knows better. Tim is seeing connections even Gordon’s veterans would have missed.

The silence stretches. Tim finally looks up, blinking owlishly when he realizes Bruce hasn’t said anything yet. “Was I wrong?” His voice is small, like he’s bracing for the letdown.

Bruce exhales slowly. No, not wrong. Not even close.

He steps forward, the cape brushing against the stone floor, and lays a gloved hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No, Tim. You’re right.” His voice is softer than he intends, but he doesn’t correct it. “You saw what others didn’t.”

Tim’s face lights up in a quick flash of relief, of pride—but what strikes Bruce most is the humility in it. The boy isn’t basking. He’s already turning back to the evidence, as if eager to keep working, to prove himself further.

That’s when the realization settles in Bruce’s bones, heavy and undeniable—he can’t ignore this anymore.

Not the way Tim’s mind slices through puzzles like a blade. Not the way his persistence mirrors Bruce’s own, relentless and consuming. And not the way he’s drawn, again and again, toward the heart of Gotham’s mysteries, as if the city itself has claimed him already.

Bruce doesn’t say the words aloud—not yet. But inwardly, he acknowledges it—the boy has the makings of a detective. And Bruce Wayne, for all his control, knows there is no turning back from what he’s just witnessed.

—

The car hums beneath him, the faint vibration of tires against asphalt echoing through his bones. Tim sits pressed against the window, chin tucked into his palm, the glass cool against his temple. The city sprawls outside in blurred patches of neon and shadow, slipping further into night. Raccoon City is still a ways off, but the sign on the highway already points toward it like some inevitable anchor pulling him back.

Raccoon City. Again.

His parents chatter in the front seat, voices sharp and distant, business calls bleeding into personal complaints. They don’t look at him. They never really do. Tim watches the headlights carve their way through the dark and thinks about how strange it is that three months ago he was here, abandoned, left to wander streets he didn’t know. Three months ago, it was Marvin’s steady voice that kept him calm, Sherry’s laughter that distracted him, the S.T.A.R.S. unit that made him feel… not so invisible.

And now he’s being dragged back.

His fingers drum quietly against the window frame. He’s trying not to think too much, but the memories sneak in anyway.

The manor felt heavier than usual. The tension was thick enough to taste.

“They want to what?” Dick’s voice cracked up an octave as he rounded on Bruce, disbelief painting every syllable.

“Take him to business trips again, they said,” Bruce says, the words clipped, sharp. His jaw is tight, his hands folded behind his back in a stance that would look calm to anyone who didn’t know him. But Dick does. And Alfred does. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping his own wrist.

The Drakes had shown up at the door unannounced, perfectly dressed, perfectly smiling, as if they hadn’t left their son alone in a strange city. Alfred’s politeness had barely masked the storm behind his eyes.

“Three months, Bruce. Three months since they left him alone in an unfamiliar city,” Dick seethes, pacing the length of the study like a caged tiger. “They didn’t even bother to call him since then—not one call!—and now they want to take him back to, what, the same city they left him in?”

Tim had stood in the doorway then, caught between the fire of the argument and the silence of his own thoughts. Part of him wanted to stay—here, in the manor, where things finally started to feel steady, safe. But another part of him, the louder part, wanted to see Sherry again. Marvin. Maybe even the S.T.A.R.S. if they were still around. He also wanted answers about that strange statue puzzle in the police station.

“They bribed the judge.” Bruce’s voice is gravel, low and dangerous. “A temporary order that overrides my guardianship. On paper, they still have parental rights.” His lips press thin, the fury simmering. “But this will not last.”

“They shouldn’t have rights,” Dick spits, raking a hand through his hair. His eyes flick to Tim, and they soften instantly, like whiplash. “You don’t have to go, Timmy. Not if you don’t want to.”

Tim had looked at him then. At Bruce, at Alfred, all of them waiting for his answer. And he’d said the one thing he knew would hurt them;

“…I kind of want to.”

The silence afterward was a weight that pressed into his chest.

Tim shifts in the seat, tugging his jacket tighter around him. The night feels colder the closer they get. He stares out at the dark horizon, trying to decide if the tightness in his chest is excitement or dread.

Maybe it’s both.

He wonders what Sherry will say when she sees him again. Behind all of that, though, is a nagging echo of Bruce’s voice in the study—low, furious, promising this isn’t over. And Dick, storming the room like he’d throw hands with a judge if he could.

Tim presses his forehead to the cool glass and shuts his eyes. He tells himself he’ll only be in Raccoon for a little while. Just long enough to see his friends. Just long enough to understand what keeps tugging him back.

He doesn’t know yet how wrong that thought will be.

—

The guest house Umbrella lent them is exactly as it had been before, polished and pristine, the sort of sterile comfort that feels more like a dollhouse than a home. Tim carries his own bag inside because his parents don’t even think to grab it for him, their voices already pitched with excitement over business prospects and networking dinners. The air smells faintly of polish and disinfectant, and Tim feels that same faint chill creep down his spine as the first time.

He doesn’t even have time to unpack before the Drakes are ushering him into the car again, the leather seats cold against his palms. Destination: the Birkin residence.

The Birkin house is large and immaculate, glass windows glittering with Umbrella’s money, the sort of house that is more showcase than home. Inside, William Birkin is as stiff and self-important as Tim remembers, while Annette’s smile is painted on and brittle. The adults exchange pleasantries, discussing research and contracts, words that buzz like static to Tim’s ears.

Then, almost predictably, Annette waves a dismissive hand. “Why don’t the kids go play?”

It’s said in the same sing-song tone as before, as if Tim and Sherry were toddlers rather than children who’d already learned to read between the lines.

Tim doesn’t need to be told twice and immediately looks for Sherry.

He steps through the door leading to the garden at the back of the house, carrying the small satchel Bruce insists he take for “emergencies and important papers” but really stuffed with gadgets and notebooks.

And there she is.

She’s leaning against the railing of theie porch, arms crossed, a faint scowl tugging at her mouth. But the moment she sees him, her posture softens. Her eyes light up, bright as the sun slicing through the blinds, and all the tension of the past three months melts for a heartbeat.

“Tim!” she blurts, running down the steps, shoes tapping against the polished floor. She skids to a stop in front of him, a wide grin spreading across her face. “You’re really here. I thought I’d only see you in my nightmares where you’re trapped in Umbrella labs or something.”

Tim can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing off the walls, light and warm, cutting through the anxiety that had knotted his chest since he arrived. “I’m here,” he says, voice tight with relief. “I made it. And… you made it look like you didn’t miss me at all.”

Sherry gasps dramatically, putting a hand to her chest. “Miss you? Me? Never. Totally indifferent. Cold as ice. I’m a heartless robot. That’s me. But yeah… it’s good to see you too, I guess.”

They laugh together, the sound like a tiny rebellion against the sterile perfection of the house, against the adults who are upstairs, discussing things no kid is meant to understand. Tim notices immediately how different Sherry is here—she’s confident, almost reckless in her movements, daring in a way she never was when her parents hover nearby.

“Come on,” Sherry says suddenly, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the back garden. “We need to talk. And by talk, I mean catch up properly, without anyone asking about stocks or lab experiments or whatever their boring grown-up stuff is this time.”

Tim follows, heart thumping with the rush of freedom, of having someone who gets him, someone who is also navigating the absurdities of a world built by adults who barely notice them. They reach a shaded corner of the garden, the fountain glinting in the afternoon sun, and collapse onto the grass side by side, legs tangled in the way kids always manage when they’re happy to be together.

“So,” Tim begins, fiddling with the straps on his satchel, “what’s new with you? The last three months—you’ve got to tell me everything. I need details.”

Sherry’s grin is mischievous. “Everything? You’re asking a lot, Timothy. Fine. I survived my parents trying to make me a miniature scientist. I’ve mastered making toast without setting off smoke alarms—almost. I’ve bribed Jasper the cat with tuna to finally forgive me for that incident with the garden hose.”

Tim laughs, eyes brightening. “Jasper! He’s still alive? I feared the worst.”

“Of course he’s alive,” Sherry says, mock indignation in her tone. “I have standards. Unlike some parents who apparently leave their kids in other cities without a single thought.”

Tim stiffens at the words, but he doesn’t correct her. He can’t—not entirely. There’s a pang in his chest at the memory, at the anger, at the weird mix of betrayal and thrill that lingers from the first time they left. He swallows it down. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet, “my parents are… something else.”

Sherry nudges him gently. “Hey, it’s okay. You survived, didn’t you? And you’ve got me now. And… maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s us against the boring, scary adult world. Deal?”

Tim nods, the weight in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Deal,” he says, letting himself smile fully.

—

The city air feels softer here, away from the heavy expectations of their parents. Tim and Sherry walk side by side along the winding paths of the park, each carrying a small paper bag of breadcrumbs they snagged from the Birkin’s house. The late afternoon sun glints off the pond, and ducks paddle lazily across the water, quacking and bobbing as if they already know mischief is coming.

“Do you think they’ll notice if we… feed the ducks all their breadcrumbs?” Sherry asks, tossing a few bits toward a cluster of waddling mallards.

Tim grins. “If they do, it’s their problem. This is chaos done correctly .” He crouches, sprinkling a handful along the water’s edge, and the ducks quack in delight.

Sherry watches him, tossing another piece to a particularly greedy duck, and then she pauses, brow furrowed. Her usual mischievous grin fades slightly. “Tim… something weird’s happening at home.”

Tim tilts his head, curiosity immediately piqued. “Weird how?”

Sherry bites her lip, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “My dad… he’s acting… stranger than usual. Way stranger than normal.” Her gaze drifts to the water, where the ducklings chase each other in circles. “I overheard him talking to my mom last night. About… his life’s work. He said it’s almost complete.”

Tim freezes mid-scatter, crumbs falling between his fingers. “Life’s work?” His voice is small, careful, as if saying it too loudly might make it real. “Like… like some science thing? Or… something else? A crazy scientist thing?”

Sherry shrugs, uneasy. “I don’t know. I mean, it is science stuff, but it didn’t sound normal . And he looked… different. Excited, but… in a way that makes my stomach hurt.” She tosses another handful of crumbs at the ducks, watching their frenzy. “I don’t know what it means, Tim. I just… I feel weird about it.”

Tim’s brain clicks into overdrive. He's brilliant for his age, Bruce and Dick said so, and his every instinct is sharp and restless. His stomach knots, a familiar mix of excitement and fear. He wants to ask a hundred questions, but he doesn’t want to scare Sherry—or make her more anxious. “Maybe… maybe we just watch,” he suggests quietly. “See what happens. You’re not alone in this. I’ll… I’ll help you figure it out.”

Sherry looks at him, relief flickering across her face, though her frown lingers. “Thanks, Tim. Seriously. I don’t know anyone else I’d tell this to.” She smacks a stray breadcrumb into the water, and a duck quacks indignantly, splashing up a little spray that lands on Tim’s sleeve.

“Hey!” he yelps, swatting at the wet spot, then laughs despite the tight knot of worry in his chest. “You’re trying to drown me!”

Sherry giggles, the tension easing slightly as they continue to feed the ducks together. But underneath the playful chaos, a seed of unease lingers. Tim can’t shake the feeling that whatever her father’s life’s work is, it’s big, dangerous, and—somehow—it’s going to matter.

For now, though, there are ducks, breadcrumbs, and the comfort of not being alone. He glances at Sherry, her hair catching the sunlight in streaks of gold, and silently promises himself—we figure this out together.

—

The creak of the house floorboards under their small, careful steps feels like a drumbeat in the silence. Tim and Sherry press themselves against the hallway wall, breath shallow, hearts racing. The adults’ voices drift through the slightly ajar door at the end of the corridor.

Tim’s eyes widen. “That’s them. Talking,” he leans closer. “Let’s just listen for a second.”

Sherry nods, clutching his hand. “I don’t like this, Tim. It feels… weird.”

Tim swallows, his curiosity sharpening. “We just need to know what we’re dealing with. Promise we’ll be careful.”

The crack of the door lets a sliver of conversation escape.

“…progressing faster than expected,” William Birkin says, his voice low and clipped.

“Good. Keep it contained. No accidents this time,” Annette responds, calm but firm. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

One of the Drakes speaks, smooth and confident. “We’ve invested heavily, William. This project is critical, and we need absolute discretion. Every step must be measured. The stakes are too high for surprises.”

“Yes, Mr. Drake. I understand,” William says.

Sherry shivers beside Tim. “Tim, they’re talking about something bad. Seriously bad.”

Tim nods, feeling the weight of it pressing against his chest. “It's some kind of experiment. They’re being careful because it’s dangerous. They know what they’re doing.”

Annette interjects quietly, almost to herself, “We’re so close. Once this reaches the next phase, it will change everything.”

One of the Drakes leans back, voice smooth and satisfied. It’s Janet. “Just ensure the containment protocols are airtight. Our investment—and reputation—depends on it.”

Tim’s stomach knots, the words sinking in. His parents clearly understand the full picture, but they’re calm. They’re businesslike. That makes the whole situation even more frightening to him. These adults know exactly how dangerous it could be if they’re talking about containment protocols, yet they’re speaking about it like it’s just another project.

Sherry bites her lip, watching a small shadow shift across the polished floor ahead. “It’s scary, Tim. Not just regular scary. Seriously, genuinely scary.”

Tim squeezes her hand, steadying himself more than her. “I know. We just watch and learn. That’s all we do for now.”

She glances at him, eyes wide. “Promise we’ll be smart.”

“I promise,” Tim says.

For a long moment, the only sounds are their shallow breaths and the soft shuffling of adult feet behind the door. Outside, the Raccoon City sun dips lower, casting long shadows over polished floors and manicured halls, hiding two small figures pressed against the wall, observing and learning, already thinking about what they’ll do next.

Tim swallows hard, his mind racing through possibilities. He wonders what kind of world he has stepped into and whether the two of them can even begin to understand it.

—

They slip into Sherry’s room, closing the door quietly behind them. The familiar scent of her room—soft lavender mixed with the faint tang of polish and old books—feels like a small comfort after the tense corridors of the guest house. Tim perches on the edge of her bed, chest still pounding. Sherry sits on the desk chair, legs swinging, eyes wide, taking in the quiet but uneasy space.

“That was too close,” Sherry says, voice tight. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and bites her lip. “They’re… something else, Tim. I don’t even know how to explain it.”

Tim nods, pacing a little by the window. “Yeah. We have to do something. Bruce and Dick—they’d know what to do.” His voice falters, then hardens with determination. “They’re smart. They’d—” He stops, remembering. “Wait. We don’t even have solid evidence yet. If we run screaming about a dangerous experiment, no one’s going to believe us. And… if I screw this up, it could ruin any chance I have to prove myself to Bruce.”

Sherry tilts her head and blinks, “Prove yourself?”

Tim exhales slowly. Being left behind in Raccoon City plays across his mind—the initial fear, the adrenaline, and Bruce quietly letting him into Gotham’s cases afterward. That trust. “To Bruce. And Dick. I want to show them I’m ready. That I can… do more.” His voice drops to a whisper, almost afraid that saying it aloud makes it real.

Sherry blinks, startled by the seriousness in his tone. “Ready for what?”

Tim shakes his head quickly, cheeks heating. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Forget it. It’s complicated.”

Sherry studies him, not pressing, just giving a small nod. She tosses a cushion onto the bed, letting it bounce once before settling. “Okay. But Tim… if we’re going to do this, we have to be smart. Sneaky. No mistakes.”

Tim leans back against the wall, brain racing. He pictures Bruce, calm and calculating, analyzing a case. He imagines Dick, energetic but sharp as a razor. He knows they’d expect nothing less than complete strategy and observation. “Right. First we gather evidence. Observe. Document. Maybe figure out exactly what the experiment is before anyone knows we’re onto them. But…” he swallows, “this won’t be easy. We’re just kids. We can’t sneak into secure, locked places. It could take years to gather anything concrete.”

Sherry’s lips curl into a small, mischievous grin. She leans forward, eyes glinting with stubborn determination. “I don’t care.”

Tim blinks at her. “You… you don’t care?”

Sherry shakes her head. “No. I’m not letting them get away with this just because we’re kids. Years or not, I’ll do whatever it takes. We can be ghosts if we have to.”

Tim feels a spark of warmth and admiration in the pit of his stomach. “Ghost detectives,” he echoes, letting a small smile slip through. “Yeah. I like that.”

For the first time tonight, the weight in his chest eases slightly. Chaos is still out there. Danger is still looming. But here, in the quiet of Sherry’s room, they’re partners. They plan, they plot, and they’re already thinking three steps ahead—because whatever William and Annette Birkin are hiding, they can’t wait around.

Tim glances at Sherry, determination rising despite the fear threading through him. “We’ll figure this out,” he says.

Sherry nods, scooting closer. “Together.”

The ducks, the breadcrumbs, the chaotic chase through Raccoon City—they feel like a lifetime ago. Now, it’s about secrets, shadows, and the first real steps into something much bigger than either of them.

Chapter Text

The next morning, sunlight filters lazily through the tall windows of the Birkins’ house, dust motes dancing in the beams like tiny lanterns. Tim sits stiffly at the small breakfast table, napkin bunched in his fist, as his parents chatter quietly with the Birkins across the room. The conversation hums low, polite, and unnervingly normal.

Tim glances at Sherry, who is unusually quiet, her spoon hesitating mid-air. His stomach twists. There is a tension in the air that even their shared mischief from yesterday cannot cut through.

After breakfast, the adults escort the children to a small, sunlit room near the back of the house. The room smells faintly of antiseptic, wood, and something metallic. Tim notices the faint glint of vials and syringes on a counter.

“Don’t worry,” William Birkin says smoothly, kneeling beside Tim and rolling up his sleeve. “It’s just a quick test. We’re checking your blood for standard things—blood chem, immunity, routine health stuff.” His tone is casual, but his hands are precise, almost too practiced.

Tim’s pulse quickens. “Routine health stuff?” he repeats, voice sharper than intended.

“Exactly,” William says. “Nothing scary. Just a small sample. This is perfectly normal—your parents agreed.”

Tim hesitates as the needle pierces his skin. He flinches, the sting sharp but brief. The world tilts slightly, the sun suddenly too bright, the antiseptic smell too strong. He squeezes the edge of the chair, feeling a mix of fear and confusion.

When it’s over, Sherry is already in the next room, eyes wide, staring at a little bandage on her arm. Tim’s pulse hasn’t settled, his hand hovering near the puncture point.

Later, when the kids are alone in Sherry’s room, the air feels heavier. Tim fiddles with a paper crane on her desk, avoiding her gaze.

“You know,” Sherry says softly, breaking the silence. She swings her legs on the chair nervously. “My dad did the same to me. Took some of my blood too.”

Tim freezes, the paper crane crumpling slightly in his hand, then he forcibly relaxes. “I saw.”

She nods, looking away. “Yeah. Said it was for research. To make sure I was healthy. Routine. Nothing to worry about.” Her voice wavers. “They both said it was routine.”

Tim swallows hard, a heavy feeling settling over his chest. “Routine,” he says, looking down at the tiny paper in his hand. It feels fragile in a way that makes the world outside seem huge and dangerous. “Why do they need our blood? There has to be something more.”

Sherry shrugs, though her shoulders tense. “I don’t know. I think they just want to make sure we’re perfect or something. I don’t get it.” Her fingers trace the edge of her desk, twisting a pen nervously. “But it felt weird, Tim. Really weird.”

Tim meets her gaze, determination rising despite the knot of fear in his stomach. “We’ll figure it out. We have to watch, keep track, and wait for the right moment. Nothing hasty. Nothing careless.”

Sherry nods, biting her lip. “Okay. But promise me we won’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“I promise,” Tim says. His hand tightens into a small fist, then relaxes. “We’re too small to fight them now, but not too small to notice. Not too small to remember.”

For a moment, the sun through the curtains warms the room, but the metallic taste of antiseptic still lingers in Tim’s mind. Both of them know that this “routine test” is only the beginning of something far bigger.

—

They retreated to the park after the adults had dismissed them, and the park had been a battlefield. Sherry and Tim turned swings into catapults, chased ducks until the groundskeeper threatened to ban them, and invented three new games that were ninety percent rules and ten percent pure chaos. By the time they walk back to the Birkin house, their sneakers are damp, their hands sticky from shared candy, and their laughter is still spilling into the quiet streets.

It dies the moment they step through the door.

Annette appears first, standing in the hall with her arms folded, looking genuinely unsettled. William follows a beat later, brow furrowed, his usual detached coolness cracking at the edges.

“Where are your parents?” Annette asks, blinking as though she’s miscounted.

Tim blinks back, the words slipping out flat. “You tell me.”

William exhales sharply, muttering more to himself than to either child. “We thought they came to pick you up before leaving. They said nothing to us about… this, just that there was an emergency in New York.”

Sherry’s face twists with confusion, glancing between the adults and Tim. “Wait—they just left? Without saying anything?”

There’s a sharp silence, heavy and awkward, pressing down like static in the air.

Tim’s mouth quirks into something that might look like a smile if you weren’t paying close attention. But it isn’t one. It’s too bitter, too tired, an echo of something too old for his face. He shrugs, the gesture slow and heavy.

“Of course they did,” he says, voice clipped and almost airy, like this is routine. Like he’s bored of the surprise. “That’s what they do.”

Disappointment burns in his chest, hot and familiar. But the sharper sting—the real ache—has dulled with repetition. He’s not shocked. He hasn’t been shocked in a long time. Instead, there’s only that sour, dragging exasperation. The kind you feel when a puzzle keeps giving you the same answer, no matter how many times you try a different approach.

His parents leave him like forgotten luggage, and he, apparently, is supposed to adapt. Again.

Sherry takes a step closer, her hand brushing his sleeve like she wants to anchor him, but Tim is already bracing himself. He stands a little straighter, slipping his disappointment behind the same careful, practiced mask he always uses.

“Guess it’s just me for now,” he says lightly, though his eyes flick briefly toward the floor.

William and Annette exchange a quick, uneasy look. For once, even the brilliant minds in the room seem caught off guard.

Tim exhales slowly, shoulders lifting, then falling with deliberate control. Inside, he is tired. Tired of waiting for them to change. Tired of pretending he’s surprised. Tired of always being the one left behind.

But outwardly? Outwardly, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne only offers another half-shrug, as if to say: what did you expect?

—

The moment the reality of his parents’ absence fully settles, Tim’s mind clicks into motion. Disappointment simmers in the background, steady and bitter, but the gears don’t stop turning. He doesn’t have to stay in the Birkin house, and he doesn’t have to stay in the guest house, sitting in silence like a misplaced suitcase waiting to be reclaimed. He remembers the place where he could stay.

“The police station,” Tim says suddenly, eyes brightening with something close to relief. “I can stay there. They won’t mind. Marvin said I could explore more next time.”

William and Annette exchange another look. For once, there’s no sharp dismissal, no muttered commentary about “spoiled children” or “investor politics.” Perhaps guilt flickers there. Perhaps not. But surprisingly, Annette sighs and gestures toward the door.

“Fine,” she says briskly. “We’ll drive you. To the guest house first to get your things, then to the station.”

Tim doesn’t question it. He doesn’t dare. He just nods, too brisk, too eager, as if afraid they’ll take the offer back.

Sherry’s face crumples beside him. “Wait—you’re leaving him there? That’s not fair! He’ll be alone again!”

“You’re not coming with him,” William says, his tone clipped and final. “It’s not a playground. And your mother and I need you home.”

“But—!” Sherry’s voice cracks, full of frustration, eyes hot with a stubborn sheen of tears she refuses to let fall. “I don’t care if it’s not a playground! I like it there! I don’t want him to be alone—”

“Sherry.” Annette’s voice sharpens, steel wrapped in motherly authority. “Enough.”

The drive is short, but heavy. Sherry sits stiffly in the backseat beside Tim, arms folded, kicking the car door in quiet rebellion. Tim doesn’t try to stop her. He gets it. He really does.

When they arrive, the RPD rises ahead, grand and imposing in its gothic revival design—more museum than police headquarters. William’s car idles as Tim steps out, backpack strap tight in his fist. He glances back only once, meeting Sherry’s frustrated, storm-bright eyes pressed against the glass.

“I’ll be okay,” he mouths, shaping the words slowly so she sees them.

Her expression twists—half anger, half sorrow—but she nods anyway.

The car pulls away, and Tim is left standing at the bottom of the precinct steps.

—

Lieutenant Marvin Branagh isn’t expecting company. It’s late afternoon, the kind of heavy golden hour that leaks through the tall arched windows and throws the marble floor into sharp, uneven patches of light. The precinct is in one of its rare lulls—no shouting, no ringing phones, just the low murmur of paperwork and boots echoing faintly down hallways.

So when the heavy front doors groan open, Marvin glances up without much thought—only for his jaw to slacken in disbelief.

Because standing there, dwarfed by the weight of the doors and the cavernous main hall, is the same boy from three months ago. Black shorts. Oversized hoodie. A backpack nearly swallowing him whole. Timothy Drake. The same Timothy Drake that was picked up by Bruce fucking Wayne.

The kid blinks at him from across the hall like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he lifts a hand in a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” Tim says, his voice soft but steady.

Marvin is on his feet in an instant, chair skidding back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His boots strike against the marble as he crosses the hall, eyes flicking from the boy to the street outside, as if expecting to see the shadow of well-meaning but irresponsible parents. There’s nothing. Just the echo of traffic.

Tim stands his ground, though his fingers twitch against the strap of his backpack. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant Branagh. I didn’t get lost this time. My—” He pauses, lips pressing together for a fraction of a second before he settles on, “—the Birkin family dropped me off.”

Marvin stares at him, trying to process. The kid doesn’t look scared, not exactly. He looks… resigned. A little tired. But his eyes—the same sharp, bright ones that had studied every corner of this precinct before—are steady as ever.

“You’re telling me,” Marvin says slowly, voice caught between disbelief and irritation, waving off the curious stares of his officers, “that your parents just… left you here? Again?”

Tim shrugs one shoulder, the motion casual in a way that’s almost painful to watch. “Wouldn’t be the first time. And the Birkins agreed that I’d be better off here than the guest house.” His tone is matter-of-fact, almost practiced, like this isn’t the first time he’s had to excuse adult neglect.

For a moment, Marvin is speechless. Then, with a muttered curse under his breath, he drops a hand on Tim’s small shoulder and steers him further into the hall.

“Alright, kid. C’mon. You can’t just stand around in the middle of the lobby looking like you belong on a missing person’s poster. Someone’ll faint.”

Tim allows himself to be guided, though his eyes flick briefly, curiously, toward the goddess statue at the hall’s center. The same spark of intrigue lights his face—the spark Marvin remembers all too well.

When they reach the reception desk, Marvin exhales and plants his hands on his hips. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Timothy Drake. And I want every detail this time.”

Tim looks up at him, expression caught between sheepish and determined. Then, in that prim, practiced tone that makes him sound more like a miniature aristocrat than an eight-year-old, he says, “Of course, Lieutenant Branagh. But… after that, can I say hello to the S.T.A.R.S. office again after I call Bruce?”

Marvin pinches the bridge of his nose. He knows—he knows—this kid is going to cause trouble.

And yet, looking down at him, so small and yet so composed, Marvin can’t bring himself to say no.

—

Marvin can only stare.

‘They left him.’ The thought pounds in his head like a drum. ‘They actually packed their bags, got in their car, and left this kid behind without so much as a second damn thought.’

His jaw tightens, and his hand curls into a fist against his thigh before he forces it loose. Years on the force have taught him how to keep his face composed, but rage is boiling in his gut. Fury at the kind of negligence he can’t wrap his head around. A fury that only grows when he notices how casually Tim delivers the words, as though he’s used to filling the silence left behind by people who should care more.

“Unbelievable,” Marvin mutters under his breath, shaking his head. ‘They’ve got money, reputation, a dozen options for care, and they still thought the right call was to dump him like luggage and head out of town.’

Tim watches him patiently, like he knows Marvin’s storming thoughts and has already weathered them before. “I didn’t want to bother anyone,” he says softly. “But the precinct seemed safer.”

Safer. The word digs into Marvin like a blade. A police station shouldn’t feel safer than your own home.

Marvin exhales hard through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face. He wants to find Tim’s parents right this second, drag them back into the city by their expensive collars, and force them to look at what they’ve done. But that’s not an option. Not here. Not now.

So instead, he steadies his voice, crouches slightly to meet Tim’s level, and says, “Kid, you did the right thing coming here. Don’t you ever think otherwise.”

Tim gives the smallest nod, his expression calm, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he grips his backpack strap tighter.

—

The phone in the RPD feels almost too big for Tim’s hands, the cord looping tight around his small fingers as he waits. His chest is tight, but his face stays stubbornly blank. This isn’t the first time, after all.

It takes only two rings before Alfred picks up, calm as ever. “Wayne residence.”

Tim exhales. “Alfred, it’s me. Tim.”

There’s a pause sharp enough to cut glass. “Master Timothy?”

Before Tim can answer, another click sounds, and Bruce’s voice fills the line, low and controlled in a way that makes Tim’s stomach twist. “Tim. Where are you?”

“At the police station,” Tim says. “In Raccoon City.”

Silence. A silence that isn’t empty, but heavy, bristling. Then—

“AGAIN?!” Dick’s voice barrels down the line, so loud Tim yanks the receiver away from his ear.

Bruce sighs, long-suffering. “Dick—”

“No, don’t you Dick me!” Dick all but screeches. Tim can hear him pacing, the floorboards probably rattling under his socks. “They left him there again?! Again, Bruce?! What kind of parents do that twice? Once is negligence—twice is, I don’t know, attempted murder!”

Tim winces, though a tiny, guilty smile threatens to curl at his lips. Dick Grayson in full big-brother meltdown is both terrifying and a little funny.

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice cuts back in, steady but dark with fury. “They left you. Alone. Again?”

“Yes,” Tim says softly, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Mr. and Mrs. Birkin dropped me off here. They said my parents had an ‘emergency’ in New York.” He puts air quotes around the word, though no one can see him.

The sound that comes out of Dick is part growl, part strangled scream. “Emergency? What, another yacht broke a nail? Did the champagne run dry? What could possibly be so important that they ditch their only son in the middle of a city twice?” His voice spikes higher with every word, like a violin string about to snap.

Tim hears a thud through the receiver—Dick must’ve thrown himself into a chair, or maybe onto the rug in despair.

“I swear,” Dick rants on, “next time they show their faces in Gotham, I am marching straight up to them, looking them in the eye, and saying, ‘Congratulations, you’re officially the worst parents on the planet.’ No, scratch that, they’re the worst people, period. Gotham’s rogues gallery has more maternal instinct than the Drakes!”

“Dick.” Bruce’s tone is low, a warning rumble.

“No!” Dick snaps back, dramatic as ever. “Don’t tell me to calm down! You didn’t just hear the words ‘left alone in Raccoon City again’ come out of an eight-year-old’s mouth with all the casualness of someone telling you they lost a sock in the dryer. Twice, Bruce. Twice!”

Tim presses the phone closer to his ear, listening with something he won’t quite call comfort—but it’s close. It’s messy, it’s furious, it’s ridiculous—but it’s for him.

Bruce finally speaks again, quiet and deliberate, each syllable edged with steel. “Tim, listen carefully. You are not alone. You will never be alone again. Do you understand me?”

Tim swallows hard and nods, even though they can’t see. “Yes.”

“Good.” Bruce exhales, a subtle rasp of air that suggests the iron grip he’s keeping on his temper. “The earliest that we could leave is in the middle of the night, after I take care of the things here.”

‘It’s okay,’ Tim wants to say, ‘Gotham’s safety is important, too.’ but the words are stuck in his throat.

“We can be there tomorrow morning.” Bruce promises.

Tomorrow morning. It feels both reassuring and very, very far away.

“Until then,” Bruce continues, and his voice sharpens into something that brooks no argument, “keep safe, and stay where you are, Timothy.”

Tim’s eyes flicker to the hallways he knows stretch past the reception desk. He remembers the faint gleam of the goddess statue, the whispers of riddles carved into marble, the sense of secrets begging to be solved. A puzzle goldmine. His heart beats a little faster.

“Yes, Bruce,” Tim answers, his voice all innocence, small and obedient. 

But deep inside, the resolve is already forming. He may be eight, but he’s a Drake, and more importantly—he’s been watching the World’s Greatest Detective for months.

—

The doors to the S.T.A.R.S. office swings open, and Marvin steps inside with one small shadow trailing behind him.

“Got someone here who remembers you lot,” Marvin says with dry humor, jerking a thumb toward Tim. His voice has that edge of disbelief that hasn’t quite worn off since the boy reappeared in his precinct like some stray cat that keeps finding its way back.

The room is alive in a way the rest of the station never is. Maps, corkboards, gun maintenance kits, a couple of mugs left half-drunk on desks, an old radio crackling softly in the corner. It smells faintly of coffee, gun oil, and people who live too close together and know each other too well.

Tim steps in, wide-eyed but careful not to gape.

“Hey, no way—” Barry is the first to notice, his broad face splitting into a grin. He pushes back from his chair with a creak and strides over, big hands settling on his hips. “If it isn’t the little detective. Thought we scared you off for good last time!”

Jill, leaning against a desk, lifts a brow and folds her arms. “Scared him off? Barry, you practically tried to adopt him.”

Barry waves a hand. “Details.” But then he crouches, lowering himself to Tim’s level. “Good to see you again, kiddo.”

Tim smiles, quick and sharp, dimples flashing. “Good to see you too.”

Chris, perched on the edge of his desk, crosses his arms, giving Tim the once-over with his soldier’s gaze. “Back in Raccoon City already, huh? Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon.”

Tim shrugs, trying to keep it casual, though the words feel heavy in his throat. “My parents had… business.”

Jill’s expression softens. She crouches slightly too, so he doesn’t have to look up so far. “Well, while you’re here, you know you’ve got friends.”

The warmth spreads in his chest like sunlight through stained glass. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear that until just now.

The office door clicks again, and in walks a petite brunette in a S.T.A.R.S. uniform, arms full of paperwork. Rebecca Chambers blinks when she sees him, surprise flickering over her face. “Uh—who’s this?”

Barry beams. “This? This is our honorary member.”

Rebecca blinks again. “Our… what?”

Jill sighs. “Don’t listen to Barry. This is Tim. He visited a while back.”

Rebecca adjusts the papers in her arms and offers Tim a small, kind smile. “Hi, Tim. I’m Rebecca. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Tim says politely, though his mind files away everything—her youth, her warmth, the way she balances competence with genuine kindness.

And then the temperature in the room shifts.

The air feels sharper. More deliberate.

Albert Wesker steps in. Black sunglasses indoors, starched uniform perfect, presence radiating command that doesn’t need to be announced. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to.

Tim’s instincts flare immediately. Something’s wrong. Something’s off. It’s not the sunglasses. It’s the weight. The quiet kind of wrongness that doesn’t announce itself but seeps in like smoke.

Wesker’s gaze—or at least the illusion of it, behind those lenses—lands on him. “And who,” Wesker says, voice smooth and measured, “is this?”

Barry straightens, hand still resting lightly on Tim’s shoulder. “Just a friend of the unit. Kid’s harmless.”

Tim meets Wesker’s gaze—or the sunglasses—and doesn’t blink. He’s small, yes, but Gotham small, and Gotham small learns quickly that never showing fear is a survival skill. “Timothy Drake,” he says clearly, every syllable practiced politeness.

For a heartbeat, the room is too quiet.

Wesker tilts his head just slightly, like he’s evaluating more than just a name. Then he hums. A low, noncommittal sound. “Hn.” He turns to Marvin. “Make sure he doesn’t get underfoot.”

And then he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

Tim exhales silently, his shoulders finally loosening. He doesn’t say anything, but the thought hisses sharp in his head, ‘I don’t like him.’

Rebecca seems to read the tension, frowning slightly. “Don’t mind Captain Wesker. He’s… intense.”

“Intense,” Chris echoes with a faint snort, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Barry claps his hands together, shattering the heaviness. “All right, enough of that. Who’s up for showing the kid how to take apart a revolver? Educational!”

“Barry,” Jill groans.

“What? Better than letting him get bored.”

Tim laughs, and it feels good. The unease Wesker left behind doesn’t vanish, but it dulls under the warmth of these people—this strange, mismatched pack of wolves who, somehow, have space for him at their table.

Marvin shakes his head, already resigned. “Guess he’s staying here awhile, then.”

And in that moment, Tim decides he doesn’t mind.

Not at all.

—

Rebecca crouches by the long desk at the back of the S.T.A.R.S. office, tugging a small case up from the bottom drawer. It clicks open to reveal neatly arranged medical tools, vials, bandages, and one rectangular slab of pale synthetic skin.

“Okay,” she says brightly, sliding the fake skin across the desk until it sits in front of Tim. “If you’re going to hang around here, you might as well learn something useful. We practice on this. It’s called suture training.”

Tim blinks, then leans in, curiosity written all over his face. “You’re going to let me stitch something?”

“On this,” Rebecca repeats, tapping the slab. “Not on a person. Don’t get any ideas.”

“I wasn’t—” Tim catches himself mid-protest and grins sheepishly. “Okay, maybe a little. But only because it sounds cool.”

Rebecca laughs under her breath. “Figures.” She hands him a sterile packet, showing him how to unwrap it without touching the needle. Her voice is calm, patient, every instruction broken into manageable steps. “Thread it through, keep the ends even. There. Good. Now—watch carefully.”

She demonstrates once, her hands small but deft, looping the thread and tugging it snug. “See? Easy.”

Tim copies, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. He fumbles the first knot, groans, and tries again. The second attempt is neater. By the third, he’s grinning, pride glowing in his chest.

“You’re a natural,” Rebecca says honestly, faintly impressed. “Most recruits take forever to stop tangling the line.”

Tim beams. “I’ve got good hands. Alfred says I’d be good at calligraphy too.”

“Alfred?”

“Our butler.”

Rebecca blinks, then laughs again. “You’re full of surprises, Tim.”

At the far end of the office, Marvin catches Chris, Jill, and Barry’s attention with a subtle jerk of his head. They peel off toward the corner, just out of Tim’s earshot, though he’s too absorbed in his stitches to notice anyway.

Marvin lowers his voice, irritation weighing down every syllable. “All right. You three need to hear this. That boy? He’s here because his parents left him. Again.”

Chris’s jaw tightens instantly, his arms folding across his chest. “What do you mean again?”

Marvin’s mouth presses into a thin line. “The first time was three months back. He wandered in here with his friend, the Birkin kid. Said his parents had skipped town, left him in Raccoon like it was a daycare center. I thought it was a one-off. But no. They’ve done it again.”

Barry’s face darkens, all the warmth he showed Tim hardening into thunder. “You’re telling me they just—walked off? Left an eight-year-old alone in the city? Twice?” His voice is low, but it vibrates with fury. “If that were my girls—” He cuts himself off, but the implication hangs heavy.

Jill, usually composed, exhales sharply through her nose, eyes flashing. “That’s neglect. Plain and simple.” Her gaze sharpens, turning thoughtful. “…Wait. Is that why Wayne was the one who picked Tim up the last time?”

Marvin nods grimly. “Exactly. Apparently, kid’s living with them.”

Chris doesn’t take his eyes off Marvin. “And nobody’s doing anything about his parents?”

Marvin sighs, shaking his head, bitterness plain. “The Drakes are rich. Untouchable, if you ask half the city, especially now that they’re entrenched in that Umbrella business. Doesn’t matter what they pull—no one wants to lay a hand on them. Especially with Irons in their pocket.”

Barry mutters something that sounds a lot like a prayer for patience, then drags a hand down his beard. “If they show their faces around here, I swear—” He stops, shaking his head. His voice drops to a growl. “I’d like five minutes in a room with them. That’s all.”

Jill presses her lips together, fury banked into cold precision. “That boy shouldn’t have to depend on strangers to feel safe.”

Chris finally exhales, slow and heavy. His fists unclench at his sides, though his jaw stays rigid. “He’s ours while he’s here,” he says simply, firmly. ‘He reminds me of Claire.’ “Whatever the Drakes think they’re doing, Tim doesn’t spend another second alone.”

The three share a look—silent agreement, the kind forged in missions where hesitation means death.

Across the room, Rebecca cheers softly as Tim completes his neatest stitch yet. “Perfect! Look at that, Tim!”

Tim grins, flushed with pride. “Really?”

“Really.”

Jill turns back toward him, her anger momentarily soothed by the sight. “Yeah,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “He’s definitely one of ours now.”

—

The hum of the precinct feels quieter now, the way it always does in the late afternoon when paperwork begins to outweigh chaos. Marvin himself needed to go back to his desk to finish some paperworks. 

Tim sits at one of the long desks, Rebecca’s fake skin kit closed and packed neatly away, his stitches lined up like careful rows of thread. His hands are still buzzing with pride when Jill walks over, something crinkling in her grip.

“Hey,” she says, crouching beside him so they’re eye-level. “I didn’t forget my promise from last time.”

She sets down two treasures: a chocolate bar and a little jar of jelly, both wrapped up in brown paper like they’ve been kept safe from greedy hands.

Tim’s eyes go wide. “You actually remembered?”

“Of course I did,” Jill replies, her tone matter-of-fact. “A promise is a promise.”

He tears into the chocolate first, snapping off a piece and letting it melt on his tongue, before carefully unscrewing the jelly lid like it’s sacred treasure. His shoulders, which had been tense since his parents’ sudden disappearance, finally loosen.

Jill smiles, watching the way his expression softens. “So. Now that you’re fed, what do you want to do next? Anything on your mind?”

Tim licks chocolate from his thumb, his brain already racing. “Yeah. I want to explore the precinct.” His eyes flick to the far wall where the big statue looms, serene and mysterious. “Specifically—I want to solve that statue puzzle. It’s been driving me crazy since I saw it last time.”

Jill blinks, then lets out a quiet laugh. “You and your puzzles.”

Chris, leaning against a nearby file cabinet, raises a brow. “Statue puzzle?”

Barry chuckles, crossing his arms. “Oh, he’s talking about the big one in the main hall. The one with the medallion slots.”

Tim sits up straighter, nearly bouncing in his seat. “So you know about it!”

Chris and Barry exchange a look, one of those unspoken why not humor the kid glances.

Barry leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing state secrets. “Here’s a hint. There are three medallions. Each one hidden in a different statue around the precinct.”

Tim’s whole body jolts with excitement. “Three? Three statues? That means—” He cuts himself off, muttering half to himself, half out loud, “I knew the lion statue wasn’t just decoration.”

Chris smirks, watching Tim scribble mental notes across his face. “Careful, kid. Don’t let puzzles eat your whole day.”

“Too late,” Tim says immediately, determination sparkling in his eyes. “I’m going to figure this out if it takes all night.”

Jill sighs, but she’s smiling, fond and exasperated all at once. “I asked what you wanted to do. Guess I should’ve expected that answer.”

Tim grins, cheeks full of chocolate, already plotting.

—

Tim is still buzzing, his fingers drumming the desk as he maps out where the three medallions might be. He’s halfway through mumbling about possible hiding spots when his train of thought jolts sideways.

He looks up at the adults, face scrunching with curiosity. “Hey… why does your chief have all those creepy taxidermied animals in his office?”

The question lands like a dart in silence.

Barry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, you’ve seen that?”

Tim blinks. “It’s hard not to. There’s a stuffed tiger staring right at you when you walk past. It’s like it knows your secrets.”

Rebecca makes a face, shoulders hunching like she’s just remembered something unpleasant. “Ugh, don’t even talk about the tiger. Every time I get called into his office, it feels like it’s watching me. Gives me goosebumps.”

Jill presses a hand over her mouth, trying to smother a laugh. “He’s not wrong.”

Chris sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because Chief Irons is… eccentric.”

“Eccentric is one word for it,” Jill mutters.

Barry grumbles under his breath, crossing his arms. “More like creepy as hell. I keep expecting those glass eyes to follow me every time I get called in there.”

Rebecca leans closer to Tim, whispering like it’s a secret. “He has more than just the tiger. Way more. It’s like a really gross museum in there.”

Tim tilts his head, frowning. “But why? Who even decides they want a whole zoo of dead animals in their office? That’s not normal. That’s—” he gropes for the right word, then blurts it out, “villain behavior.”

That cracks Jill, who bursts out laughing, doubling over until she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Chris fights a smirk, while Barry looks torn between amusement and the grim truth of it. Rebecca laughs too, though nervously, tugging at her sleeve like she’s not sure if she should.

“Kid’s got a point,” Barry finally mutters. “Doesn’t exactly inspire trust, does it?”

Chris’ tone goes flat. “Irons isn’t the kind of man I’d call trustworthy.”

The humor thins. A beat passes, something unspoken pressing between the S.T.A.R.S. members. Rebecca swallows, quieter now. “I mean… it’s not just weird decor. It feels… wrong. Like he’s proud of it.”

Tim watches them carefully, noticing how the levity dips, how each reaction fits together like puzzle pieces. His eyes narrow, filing the exchange away like a detective in training.

“Uh-huh,” he says finally, voice quiet but deliberate. “I’ll take that as a clue.”

—

Tim is practically vibrating as he bolts up the stairs of the main hall, sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished marble. The towering ceiling arches above him like a cathedral, the goddess statue watching serenely from below as if amused by the chaos of mortals.

At the top of the landing sits the lion statue. Proud, cold, and staring ahead with a stone expression, it looks like it’s daring someone to try their luck. Beneath its paw rests a shield, raised upright as if in eternal defense. And right there, in the center of the shield’s face, is a circular mark, a discontinuity in the overall design of the shield that makes it clear that it could be opened. A mark that all but whispers: something’s hidden here.

“There!” Tim exclaims, pointing so hard his whole arm wobbles. “See that? It’s a lock. Or a compartment. Something’s inside that shield.” His voice is breathless, giddy, already halfway to solving the mystery in his head.

Jill exchanges an amused look with Chris. Barry lingers at the back, arms folding as a grin pulls at his beard. Rebecca steps closer, curious but letting Tim lead.

Tim flicks his tiny flashlight on, the beam sweeping across the shield, catching in grooves and scratches that only make the circular mark more obvious. “It’s not random. This is part of the mechanism downstairs. Three inserts, three statues—it’s all connected.”

Barry leans forward, can’t help himself, and rumbles, “Want a hint, kiddo—”

“Shhh!” Tim whips around so fast it startles all of them. His big blue eyes glare with such ferocity that Barry actually stops mid-word, jaw snapping shut like he’s just been caught swearing in church. “Don’t spoil it! I can do this.”

Jill covers a smile behind her hand. Chris chuckles openly. Rebecca beams like she’s just found the little brother she never knew she needed. Barry, muttering under his breath about kids these days, steps back with his hands raised in surrender.

Tim crouches low, studying the three rotating disks with symbols beneath the lion, then tracing the perfect circle on the shield with reverent fingertips. His small frame leans forward, utterly focused, as if the whole world has narrowed down to this lion and its hidden secret.

Every muscle in his body hums with determination. To Tim, this isn’t just a puzzle in a police station. This is proof. Proof he can solve things on his own. Proof he belongs in the game.

The adults exchange quiet, knowing looks, choosing to let him have the moment.

Tim presses his lips together, brow furrowed, eyes darting over the lion statue like he’s trying to will it into giving up its secrets. The shield beneath the lion’s paw mocks him with its secret, begging to be unlocked. But there’s no clear answer, no hint scribbled on the walls. If there’s a code, then the clues are hidden elsewhere.

Which means I have to find them.

The thought sparks in his head like a match. He straightens, chin tipped slightly upward in determination. He won’t ask. Not Jill, not Chris, not Rebecca, and definitely not Barry. If the solution is here, then he’ll track it down himself. Bruce doesn’t give out victories—he makes you earn them. And Tim wants to earn this one.

He’s just about to step away, to start plotting where to search first, when the sound of polished shoes echoes behind him.

“Ah,” a smooth, self-satisfied voice says. “What do we have here?”

Tim turns slowly, tucking his flashlight back into his hoodie pocket, masking the quick thrum of his heartbeat with perfect posture and polite neutrality.

Irons approaches with the air of a man who owns the world—or at least wants everyone to believe he does. His suit is dark, his tie just slightly too tight, his face set in a smile that feels pasted on rather than natural. His eyes, though… those give him away. Greedy little crocodile eyes. Watching. Measuring. Waiting to snap.

To anyone else, he might pass as affable. To Tim, it’s all an act. Gotham teaches you how to see monsters hiding in expensive clothes.

Still, outwardly, Tim is nothing but the Drake heir: spine straight, hands folded loosely in front of him, expression politely blank. A perfect little gentleman.

“Chief Irons,” Chris says with a note of warning, but Irons only raises a hand as if to wave it away.

“Well, Mr. Drake,” the man purrs, his attention settling on the boy like a heavy cloak, “back in Raccoon City again, are we? My, my… one might think you enjoy our humble precinct.”

Tim tilts his head, just slightly, offering a small, carefully rehearsed smile. “It’s very… interesting,” he says, his voice prim, perfectly modulated. Alfred would be proud.

Irons chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They flick briefly toward the shield in the lion’s paw, then back to Tim. “I can’t help but wonder, will Mr. Wayne be picking you up again? He seemed very—ah—invested in your well-being the last time.”

For a beat, silence hums in the air. Jill’s shoulders tense. Chris’s jaw tightens. Rebecca frowns faintly, sensing the subtext even if she doesn’t voice it.

Tim blinks once, slowly, the picture of innocence. Then, with a matter-of-fact tone that hides his inner sharpness, he answers, “Yes. As a matter of fact, he is. But not until tomorrow morning.”

Irons’ smile widens. Too wide. The kind of smile that shows too many teeth.

Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just lets the polite mask settle firmly into place, even as his mind whispers: Crocodiles always circle when they smell opportunity.

Irons’ grin holds for a moment too long. The silence stretches, taut as wire, broken only by the faint hum of the precinct lights. Tim doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink faster than necessary. Just a polite little boy with old money manners.

The chief’s eyes flick over him one last time—sharp, assessing, predatory. Then, with a genial pat to his own chest as though he’s trying to dispel the tension he himself created, Irons laughs.

“Well! Don’t let me interrupt the great puzzle-solving efforts of our S.T.A.R.S. unit—and their little guest.” His smile twitches as though he tastes something bitter. “Carry on, carry on.”

He pivots on polished shoes and strolls away, his shadow stretching long across the hall until he disappears around a corner.

The second he’s gone, Jill exhales through her nose, muttering, “God, I hate that guy.”

“Creep,” Barry agrees, folding his arms, but his eyes dart to Tim, like he’s checking if the boy is rattled.

Tim only lifts one shoulder in a casual half-shrug. “He’s… fine,” he says, tone neutral. But in his head the word crocodile whispers again.

Chris looks at his watch, then at the shadow creeping in through the high windows. “Speaking of timing—it’s getting late. We should figure out where the kid’s staying tonight. Wayne’s not showing until the morning, right?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. He’s not coming until after breakfast.”

There’s a beat of silence. All four S.T.A.R.S. members look at each other. None of them seem willing to suggest leaving Tim alone in the station—or, worse, letting Irons anywhere near him again.

Then Barry claps his hands together. “Well, looks like we’re having ourselves an impromptu sleepover.” He grins. “The office is free, we’ve got couches, and I know where Jill hides her emergency coffee stash. Sounds good to me. Just have to call my wife to let her know.”

Rebecca’s face brightens. “We can grab some blankets from the infirmary storage!”

Jill smirks, leaning against the wall. “Guess the office is about to turn into Camp Raccoon City.”

Chris ruffles Tim’s hair in that older brother way of his. “Better get used to snoring, kid. Barry sounds like a chainsaw.”

“Hey!” Barry protests, but he’s already chuckling.

For the first time since Irons slithered into the room, Tim allows himself the smallest of smiles. A sleepover wasn’t in his plans—but surrounded by them, it feels a lot safer than silence in the Drake mansion ever did.

—

The S.T.A.R.S. office is dim and oddly cozy once the blinds are drawn shut. The hum of the city fades, replaced by the quieter rhythm of papers rustling, lockers clicking, and the occasional creak of old pipes in the ceiling.

Tim sits on one of the couches, legs tucked neatly under him, as Barry returns with an armful of blankets and pillows pilfered from the infirmary. He drops them onto the table with a triumphant grin.

“Alright, supplies secured. Who’s in charge of fort-building?”

Rebecca’s hand shoots up immediately. “Me. Obviously.”

“Of course you,” Jill mutters, amused, as she sips from her coffee mug. “The resident medic and part-time architect.”

Rebecca sticks her tongue out at her before sweeping up half the blankets and pillows, already plotting their deployment like she’s planning a tactical maneuver. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Tim watches her with wide eyes, then glances around the office. “Is… is this all of you?” His voice is soft, almost tentative. “I mean, S.T.A.R.S., is it just the five of you?”

Barry snorts as he shakes out a blanket. “Kid, if it were just us, we’d never get a day off.”

Chris leans against his desk, arms crossed, and answers more directly. “Nah. There’s two full teams—Alpha and Bravo. We’re just the unlucky bunch stuck on precinct duty tonight. The others are out on assignments.”

“Assignments?” Tim echoes.

“Think search-and-rescue, or investigations,” Jill says. She tips her mug at him. “Sometimes we babysit important people. Sometimes we go tromping around the mountains looking for lost hikers. Sometimes…” She shrugs. “We sit around playing cards until the phone rings.”

Rebecca pauses in her fort-building to add, “Bravo team’s got Enrico, Forest, Kenneth, Kevin, Richard… and me.” She smiles. “Alpha has Barry, Chris, Jill, Joseph, and Captain Wesker.”

At Wesker’s name, Tim’s mind flickers back to the tall blond man with the sharp smile and the unsettling stillness in his posture. He nods slowly, careful not to betray the chill that memory brings.

“So you’re not alone,” Chris says firmly, catching the look on Tim’s face. “There’s a whole crew of us. You’ve just met the loudest ones.”

Barry chuckles. “Hey, speak for yourself.”

Tim’s lips twitch at that. The tension eases.

—

By the time the conversation drifts, Rebecca has finished her masterpiece: a blanket fort that takes up the corner of the office, anchored by lockers and desks, with chairs propping up the sides. She crawls out, hair slightly mussed, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Ta-da! Fort Raccoon. Entry fee is one candy bar or equivalent snack.”

Barry groans. “Good thing I raided the vending machine, huh?” He produces a handful of candy bars from his pocket like a magician revealing a dove.

Rebecca snatches one, Jill grabs two without shame, and Chris just shakes his head.

“Tim, you in?” Barry offers him a wrapped chocolate.

Tim accepts, fingers brushing the wrapper, and ducks into the fort. Inside, it’s dim but warm, the overhead light filtering through the blankets like sunlight through canvas. He can’t help it—he laughs, a small, genuine laugh that he quickly tries to stifle.

“You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, you know,” Jill says as she crouches to peek inside. She’s grinning despite herself.

Tim’s cheeks flush faintly, but he nods.

—

Later, they spread out across the office in varying states of relaxation. Barry insists on telling one of his long-winded stories about his daughters’ latest school projects, complete with exaggerated voices. Chris groans through half of it, but he’s smiling. Jill offers sarcastic commentary every few sentences, which only makes Barry double down.

Rebecca, meanwhile, has pulled Tim back to the desk and set up a small suture kit with strips of fake skin. “Steady hands, alright? Nice and even. Pretend you’re sewing your shirt back together.”

Tim concentrates, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he guides the needle through. He’s so focused that he barely notices the way the others glance over now and then, quietly impressed.

“Not bad,” Rebecca says warmly when he ties off a knot. “You’ve got good hands for this.”

Barry leans over with mock horror. “Don’t tell me the kid’s gonna put us all out of a job in a few years.”

Tim just ducks his head, but there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes.

—

Night deepens. The city outside grows quiet. The office lights are dimmed until only a desk lamp glows faintly in the corner. Everyone settles in their own way: Jill stretched out across two chairs, jacket rolled into a pillow; Chris slouched on the couch with one arm over his eyes; Barry snoring already in the far corner like a rumbling engine.

Tim curls up inside the blanket fort, Rebecca nearby with a book half-open on her lap.

It feels—strange. Strange, but good.

—

The precinct office is quiet now. Barry’s snore is steady, Rebecca’s book has slipped shut in her lap, and Jill has rolled over in her chair so her back is to everyone.

Inside the blanket fort, Tim adjusts the pillow under his head, the glow of the desk lamp barely filtering through the blanket walls. He pulls his phone from his backpack for the first time all evening.

The screen lights up—twenty-seven unread notifications.

Tim blinks. “…Oh.”

The first thread is Sherry.

Sherry: this is so unfair.

Sherry: did you hear my parents say no?! again. they never let me do ANYTHING fun.

Sherry: you get to stay with stars and i’m stuck here with lectures about homework and piano practice.

Sherry: do you know what i’d give to NOT do piano practice right now?

Sherry: i told mom i could practice in the station lobby, she said that’s “inappropriate.”

Sherry: she doesn’t get it. NONE of them get it.

Sherry: you’re literally with the coolest people in raccoon city and i’m trapped here like a prisoner.

Sherry: ugh next time i’m sneaking out. i don’t care if i get grounded.

Sherry: ok i do care a little but STILL.

Sherry: save me some of whatever you’re doing.

Tim grins despite himself, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He wants to text back, but he tucks the phone closer to his chest instead. Tomorrow. He’ll tell her all about it tomorrow.

Then he opens the next thread—Bruce and Dick.

The preview already makes his stomach flip.

Dick: TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE-WAYNE ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW

Dick: i swear if you’re wandering the city alone AGAIN i’m coming over there myself

Dick: i’m not going to wait for bruce’s slow ass to come get you

Dick: bruce he’s not answering i told you something’s wrong

Dick: bruce check the tracker

Dick: IT’S NOT MOVING HE’S BEEN KIDNAPPED

Bruce: The tracker shows he’s still inside the station.

Bruce: Do not jump to conclusions, Dick.

Dick: DO NOT JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS????

Dick: HE’S EITHER TIED TO A CHAIR OR LOCKED IN A CELL RIGHT NOW

Dick: or worse

Dick: they’re making him eat cafeteria food

Bruce: He’s fine.

Bruce: But he should have responded by now.

Bruce: Tim, if you see this, text back immediately.

Tim bites his lip, smothering a laugh. He can hear their voices in the words. Dick pacing a hole in the carpet, Bruce with his jaw set, arms folded.

He scrolls further.

Dick (five minutes later): that’s it i’m booking the next flight out

Dick: bruce if you don’t stop me i’ll parachute into raccoon city myself

Dick: TIM

Dick: you better be asleep or i will ground you so hard your grandchildren will feel it

Tim snorts into his pillow. He quickly types back:

Tim: I’m safe. Staying at the station. My phone was in my bag, sorry.

Tim: Going to sleep now. Goodnight.

Almost instantly, the dots appear.

Dick: GOODNIGHT??? GOODNIGHT?? TIMOTHY YOU CAN’T JUST—

Bruce: Sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.

Bruce: Stay where you are.

The words are sharp, final, and underlined with the weight of Batman’s voice even through text.

Tim tucks the phone under his pillow. Outwardly, he’s obedient and innocent. Inside, his mind is already turning back to the lion statue upstairs, the strange circular mark in the shield, and the thrill of a puzzle waiting for him in the morning.

He whispers to himself, grinning in the dark of the blanket fort, “Stay where I am. Sure, Bruce.”

—

The fort is cozy. Too cozy. The kind of cozy that makes his brain itch instead of drift off. Tim rolls onto his back, staring up at the sagging blanket roof. He can hear Barry’s snores across the room, Jill’s steady breathing, the occasional rustle of Rebecca turning in her chair. The office is wrapped in the hush of late night.

But his eyes won’t close. His heart won’t slow.

He has questions.

The lion statue upstairs. The medallion. The puzzles that have to be hiding in this building—he knows it the way other kids know their multiplication tables. He can feel them in his bones.

Tim pushes back the blanket, every move exaggeratedly careful. He tiptoes across the office, his socks whispering against the floor. His backpack waits by the couch; he pulls it open just far enough to slip his notebook out, the one he started scribbling patterns in earlier. Pencil tucked behind his ear, he pads to the door.

He hesitates, glancing back.

Jill stirs but doesn’t wake. Rebecca mutters something in her sleep. Barry lets out a snore that rattles the window.

Tim exhales. Good.

He turns the knob with painstaking slowness, the latch giving just the tiniest click before the door eases open.

The hallway is darker than he expects. Quieter, too. The kind of quiet that stretches and presses against your ears. Even Gotham at its most silent never feels this hollow.

Tim straightens his shoulders. “Just looking around. Just… investigating.” His whisper vanishes into the air, eaten by the shadows.

He starts toward the main hall, notebook clutched tight. Every step feels like a secret. Every creak in the floor is a promise: tonight, he’s not just an abandoned kid waiting for Bruce to swoop in. Tonight, he’s a detective.

—

The precinct feels different at night.

The hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the ringing of phones—all gone. What remains is the skeleton of the place, marble floors echoing underfoot and shadows stretching too far. The golden lamps glow dimmer now, their pools of light sharp-edged, leaving long corridors of darkness in between.

Tim sticks to the edges. Always the edges. Gotham taught him that much—stay close to the wall, stay in the blind spots, and you’ll go unnoticed.

Down in the main hall, two officers sit at the front desk, mugs of coffee steaming in front of them. Their laughter drifts up to where Tim crouches halfway up the grand staircase. He peers between the banister rails, heart thudding, waiting until one of them checks his watch and the other yawns wide enough to block his view.

He slips higher, silent on socked feet.

The second floor is quieter still. The lion statue waits in the shadows, its brass plate catching the low light like a watchful eye. Tim’s fingers itch to rush over, to try the patterns, to test his theories—but he clamps down on the urge. Not yet. Not while the night is still awake around him.

He moves on. Past shuttered doors, past stern portraits of long-forgotten mayors glaring down at him. The paintings feel accusatory, their eyes following him. Tim pointedly avoids looking at them, muttering under his breath, “You’re not alive. You’re not alive.”

Once, a flashlight beam cuts across the hallway ahead. Tim flattens against the wall, his tiny body vanishing in the corner’s shadow. The officer passes without noticing, whistling something off-key. Tim grins, giddy with victory, as if he’s already in the cowl.

He ducks into the waiting room. Even emptier at night, the statues and mounted art are worse now, half-hidden in gloom, their sharp features tricking his tired brain into imagining movement. He stands there for a long moment, heart pounding, before he steels himself and whispers, “You don’t scare me. I live in Gotham.”

His notebook comes out again, pencil scratching fast across the page:

• Lion statue upstairs. Medallion? Combination needed.
  
  
• Chief’s office = creepy. Taxidermy everywhere. Hidden clue??
  
  
• Main hall goddess statue = center of everything. Indentations = puzzle base

The words look back at him, messy but certain. Evidence, even if only for himself.

Satisfied, Tim snaps the notebook shut and presses it to his chest. He casts one last glance around the empty room, then slips back into the hallway, already mapping the quickest route back to the S.T.A.R.S. office before anyone notices a missing child in the building.

Because Bruce told him—stay where you are.

And technically, he is. Just… with a bit of exploring in between.

—

Tim slips back into the STARS office like a shadow, the notebook tucked under his arm, heart still buzzing with the thrill of his midnight adventure. He eases the door shut, the click quiet as a breath—

And freezes.

Chris is awake.

He’s slouched in one of the armchairs, arms crossed loosely, blue eyes glinting with amusement in the half-light. His expression says plainly: Caught you.

Tim goes still, every muscle in his little body stiffening. His brain cycles through excuses—bathroom, water, bad dream—but Chris tilts his head, like he already knows, like he’d been awake the whole time.

“You walk quieter than most rookies I’ve trained,” Chris says at last, his voice a low rumble softened by amusement. “But I heard the door.”

Tim swallows. “...How long were you watching me?”

Chris’s smile quirks. “Since you tried to sneak past the desk the first time. Didn’t think you’d make it that far. Proved me wrong.”

Tim’s ears burn. He doesn’t know if that’s a scolding or a compliment.

Then Chris nods toward the coffee table. “That’s yours.”

Tim follows his gaze. A mug sits steaming on the table, rich with the sweet, unmistakable smell of hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate—not the watery instant packets Alfred keeps for emergencies, but thick, velvety, homemade.

Tim blinks, then looks back at Chris. “You made this?”

Chris shrugs, casual. “Claire says I can’t cook to save my life. She’s not wrong. But I can make a mean hot chocolate.” His grin turns wry. “Years of cold stakeouts in worse places than this—you figure out how to make something decent to keep your hands warm.”

Tim pads over, curls his fingers around the mug. The first sip nearly knocks him flat. Sweet, rich, creamy. It’s… good. Really good. His eyes widen over the rim.

Alfred has always been the undisputed champion of hot chocolate. But Chris—Chris is giving him a run for his money.

A thought sparks in Tim’s mind, bright and ridiculous and utterly him. He lowers the mug, solemn as if swearing an oath. “I’m going to introduce you to Alfred. And when I do, you two are going to have a battle. For the title of best hot chocolate in the world.”

Chris blinks, then snorts. “A battle, huh?”

“Yes.” Tim nods firmly, the kind of nod that carries all the weight of an eight-year-old’s absolute certainty. “Winner takes the title. Loser…” He takes another sip, savoring the richness. “...loser still makes hot chocolate for me whenever I want.”

Chris laughs, quiet but full, and ruffles Tim’s hair. “Deal.”

Tim sets the mug back down, steam curling faintly in the lamplight. He doesn’t return to his bedroll. Instead, he walks over to the couch and slides onto the cushion beside Chris, small enough that there’s plenty of space between them. He tucks his knees up, clutching the hot chocolate like it’s a shield.

Chris doesn’t move him. Doesn’t tell him to get back to bed. He just shifts enough to give the kid more room, one arm draped across the back of the couch.

Silence lingers, but not the uncomfortable kind. Just the quiet hum of night, the faint creak of the old building, and the warmth of two people who don’t mind not filling every second with words.

Finally, Tim breaks it. “Do you ever… not sleep?”

Chris huffs a laugh. “All the time. You’ve seen the kind of job I’ve got. It keeps you up.” His eyes flick to Tim. “You too, huh?”

Tim nods, gaze lowering. He doesn’t say why, he just murmurs, “Sometimes, it’s easier to stay awake than have bad dreams.”

Chris’s jaw tightens, just for a second. He doesn’t press, doesn’t pry. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know what helped me when I was younger?”

Tim looks up, curious.

“Knowing someone else was awake too,” Chris says simply. “When I was a rookie, I’d check in on my squad during long missions. I’d stay up, keep watch, so the others could sleep. I couldn’t stop the nightmares, but I could make sure I wasn’t the only one facing them.”

Tim studies him, small fingers tightening around the mug. “So you’re saying… I don’t have to deal with it by myself.”

Chris glances over, his smile faint but steady. “Exactly.”

It sits heavy in Tim’s chest—something he didn’t realize he needed spelled out. He ducks his head, sipping the chocolate again just to hide the sting in his eyes.

They sit like that for a while, the minutes stretching soft and unhurried. Tim asks questions he normally keeps buried: what being a soldier feels like, if Chris ever gets scared, if family really matters when the world is dangerous. Chris answers honestly, voice low, steady, never once laughing at the smallness of the questions.

And when Chris finally asks one back, “What about you, Tim? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Tim hesitates.

He could say “detective.” He could say “scientist.” He could even say “just alive.” But instead, he blurts the truth that’s been growing in him for months, “…I want to help. Like you. Like Barry, Jill, and Rebecca.”

Chris is quiet for a moment, then his hand settles on Tim’s shoulder, warm and grounding. “You already do, kid. More than you know.”

And somehow, that makes the night feel lighter.

—

The office is quiet when dawn breaks. The hum of the old vending machine and the faint scratch of the ceiling fan fill the space with a kind of domestic calm that doesn’t belong in a police precinct.

Jill is the first to stir. Years of training won’t let her sleep past sunrise, and as she rubs her eyes, she notices the couch. Her lips twitch immediately.

There, slumped against one armrest, is Chris. His head has fallen back at an uncomfortable angle, his hair a tousled mess, and in his lap—curled up like a cat—is Tim. The boy’s cheek is pressed against Chris’s chest, his small hand curled in the fabric of Chris’s shirt.

Chris’s arm is wrapped protectively around him, as if he decided at some point during the night that moving wasn’t an option. Both are dead to the world.

Jill covers her mouth to keep from laughing. She grabs her phone off the desk. Click.

Barry groans from his sleeping bag on the floor. “What the hell is so funny this early, Valentine?”

She grins wickedly and tilts the phone so Barry can see the captured moment.

Barry squints, then immediately snorts so loud Rebecca stirs awake. “Oh, this is gold.” He chuckles, trying to keep his voice down. “Big, tough Redfield. Out cold with a kid using him as a teddy bear.”

Rebecca blinks sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “Huh? What’s going on?”

Jill gestures toward the couch. Rebecca follows her gaze, and her heart melts instantly. “Oh my god.” She clasps her hands together. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Cuter than that golden retriever pup we rescued last spring?” Barry teases.

“Yes,” Rebecca insists, already pulling out her own phone. Click click click.

Jill smirks. “We’re never letting him live this down.”

Barry grins wide. “Oh, I’ve already got captions forming. ‘Chris Redfield, certified babysitter. Rates negotiable.’”

Rebecca shakes her head, but she’s smiling too, her voice hushed. “He looks so peaceful, though. Both of them do.”

They fall quiet for a moment, just watching. The boy who spent the night wide-eyed and buzzing with puzzles looks smaller, safer, like he finally let himself rest. And Chris—whose shoulders usually carry half the world—looks lighter, too, anchored by the weight of someone else trusting him enough to sleep.

“Alright,” Jill whispers, pocketing her phone. “Let’s let them have this.”

Barry nods, though he mutters, “Still sending this picture to Claire. She deserves to see her brother like this.”

Rebecca giggles softly. “She’s going to scream.”

As the morning light spills through the blinds, the office feels warmer somehow—like a family kitchen instead of a police unit.

And on the couch, Chris shifts slightly, tightening his arm around Tim without ever waking.

—

Chris wakes slowly, not because of the sun cutting through the blinds, but because there’s a strange tickle on his face. He groans, shifting slightly—only to hear muffled giggles.

He cracks an eye open.

Three figures loom above him, grinning like they’ve just been handed free ammo: Jill, Barry, and Rebecca. All three have their phones out.

Chris blinks blearily. “…what the hell are you doing?”

Jill smirks. “Oh, nothing. Just capturing a historic moment. Chris Redfield, guardian of children.” She tilts her phone meaningfully.

Barry waggles his eyebrows. “Didn’t know you had such a soft side, Redfield. Kid curled up like you’re his favorite blanket.”

Rebecca beams. “It’s adorable. You two looked so cozy I almost didn’t want to wake you up.”

Chris stiffens, immediately glancing down. And there—still fast asleep, though beginning to stir—is Tim. The boy is nestled against his chest, small fist clutching his shirt. Chris’s arm is indeed curled protectively around him.

Chris freezes. His ears turn red instantly. “I—it’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like,” Jill fires back, grinning.

Tim stirs then, mumbling incoherently before blinking awake. His eyes focus slowly, first on Chris’s chest, then on the others standing around them. “…what’s going on?” His voice is thick with sleep.

“Morning, kid,” Barry chuckles, crouching down to Tim’s level. “You had yourself a very comfortable pillow last night.”

Tim’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s been curled up on Chris this whole time. His face goes scarlet. “I—I wasn’t—” He stammers, pulling back slightly, mortified.

Rebecca kneels beside him, voice soothing. “It’s okay, Tim. Honestly? You two looked really sweet.”

Tim glances at Chris nervously. But Chris, still red in the ears, clears his throat and ruffles Tim’s hair. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Happens.”

Barry and Jill exchange a look that screams we are never letting this die.

Jill leans on the back of the couch, smirking. “So, Tim, how’d it feel? Top-notch pillow?”

Tim blinks, still flustered. Then—because he’s Tim—his face smooths into prim composure. “Yes, actually. Better than the one I had at the manor.”

Barry howls with laughter. Chris buries his face in one hand. Rebecca tries (and fails) to keep a straight face.

Tim just shrugs with perfect Drake heir nonchalance. “…what? It’s true.”

—

The doors of the precinct open midmorning, sunlight spilling across polished tile. Marvin glances up from the front desk, already recognizing the tall figure in the tailored coat. Bruce Wayne is hard to miss—he carries Gotham’s shadows in his posture even under the bright sun of Raccoon City.

And he’s not alone. At his side, Dick Grayson strides in with the look of someone who paced an airport terminal all night.

The S.T.A.R.S. office is buzzing quietly in the morning. Chris has escaped to get coffee, Barry is flipping through a weapons catalog, and Jill is scrolling through her phone—still smirking at the picture of Chris and Tim. Jill glances up from her phone when the knock comes at their door, and Barry calls, “Come in.”

The door swings open, and in steps Bruce. The atmosphere shifts at once—not tension, exactly, but awareness. They’ve seen him before, picking Tim up months ago. A billionaire, yes, but not untouchable marble—he came for his boy, and that says more than money.

Tim is perched on the couch, notebook open, Rebecca showing him something on a diagram. His head jerks up, and his pencil clatters to the floor.

“Bruce?” His voice cracks on the single word.

He’s on his feet before anyone else can move. Dick beats him halfway, scooping him up in a spinning hug that makes Tim squeak. “Oh, you little menace,” Dick mutters fiercely, clinging tight. “Do you know how many flights I wanted to hijack to get here faster? You don’t vanish into a police station and turn your phone into a ghost, Timmy. You shaved ten years off my life.”

Tim blinks against his shoulder. “…I texted. Eventually.”

“Eventually?!” Dick pulls back to glare, blue eyes blazing with theatrical fury. “You can’t give me eventually, you give me immediately.” He hugs him again for emphasis. “Never do this to me again.”

The others can’t help smiling at the sight. Barry scratches his beard, hiding his grin. Jill smirks. Rebecca pretends to be fascinated by her clipboard.

Chris comes in with coffee at that exact moment, stopping short when he sees the Waynes. “…Huh. Morning.”

“Morning,” Bruce answers smoothly, voice even and polite. He surveys the room with a measured glance, then rests a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Thank you. All of you. I know he wasn’t alone here.”

“Of course,” Jill says easily, crossing her arms. “He kept us entertained more than anything.”

Rebecca adds with a small laugh, “He was suturing fake skin with me last night. Pretty good, too.”

Barry chuckles. “Kid’s sharper than most rookies I’ve trained.”

Tim ducks his head, cheeks pink, but Bruce’s hand squeezes lightly on his shoulder. Approval. Recognition.

“Still,” Bruce continues, his gaze steady on the team, “it’s time to bring him home.”

Tim glances back at the S.T.A.R.S. office as he’s guided toward the door. Jill gives him a mock salute, Rebecca waves, Barry calls, “Take care, Tim,” and Chris just raises his cup in a wordless nod.

“You have our number, kid,” Chris calls out, “Feel free to text or call us if you need anything, or just need someone to vent to.”

Tim grins and nods.

Before they could leave, though, a commotion outside the door catches their attention. Marvin has barely finished saying, “They’re in the S.T.A.R.S. office,” when hurried footsteps echo across the marble.

Chief Brian Irons bursts into view, his face slick with too much cheer. His smile could blind a weaker man. “Mr. Wayne! What an absolute honor to see you here in our humble department once again!”

Bruce’s mask doesn’t budge. His eyes remain calm, polite, and unreadable. He inclines his head once. “Chief Irons.”

Irons clasps his hands together like he’s on stage. “It’s not every day Raccoon City is blessed by Gotham’s most illustrious philanthropist. Twice, no less! Why, if I had known you were coming days in advance, I’d have prepared a formal reception, perhaps a luncheon—”

“Funny,” Dick cuts in, his hand resting protectively on Tim’s shoulder. His smile is sugar-sweet, but his voice carries a bite. “I thought the RPD was a police station, not a country club.”

From the doorway of the S.T.A.R.S. office, Jill Valentine mutters just loud enough to carry, “Could’ve fooled me.” Barry grins into his cup like a man trying very hard not to laugh, while Chris crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. Rebecca hides her smile behind a notebook, but her shoulders shake once.

Irons pretends not to hear any of it. “And young Master Drake, of course!” he says, leaning down as though Tim should be flattered. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Tim’s chin tilts upward, his best imitation of Bruce’s quiet steel. “Yes, sir.” Prim. Polite. Nothing to latch onto.

Bruce doesn’t allow the moment to stretch. His voice is smooth, but final. “I’m only here for Timothy.”

Irons’ grin flickers like a candle in the wind before stretching wider, desperate. “Of course. Family first. Always.”

The S.T.A.R.S. exchange looks over his shoulder, not subtle in the slightest. Jill mouths, snake. Barry rolls his eyes skyward as if praying for patience. Chris just shakes his head, jaw tight.

Bruce lays a steady hand against Tim’s back. “Let’s go.”

Together, the three Waynes walk past the chief without another word. Irons stands frozen, plastering his smile back on, but the contempt from the S.T.A.R.S. unit behind him is thick enough to choke on.

—

The streets of Raccoon City slip past in a blur of muted neon. Inside the sedan, the hum of the engine fills the silence, steady and low, while the three passengers sit cocooned in the warmth of the cabin.

Dick has been pacing the rhythm of the ride with his voice since they left the precinct—loud, animated, hands slicing through the air in indignation. “I swear, Bruce, if I ever see the Drakes again—no, when I do—they’re getting an earful. Who does that? Who leaves their eight-year-old alone in some city like it’s summer camp?” He throws his hands up, incredulous. “They should be banned from, I don’t know, even owning houseplants. Plants need love and attention, too. Can you imagine them trying to keep a fern alive? Dead in a week.”

Tim sits in the backseat between them, small shoulders tucked in, backpack resting against his knees. He’s listening—he always listens—but he hasn’t said much. His eyes trace the window, though his attention flickers back now and then to Dick’s rant.

Dick, still wound up, doesn’t notice. “And don’t even get me started on the whole responsibility thing. You don’t leave a kid—especially not this kid—in a city you barely understand. If parenting licenses existed, they’d have theirs revoked in a heartbeat.”

Bruce drives in silence, his grip steady on the wheel. He doesn’t interrupt. He lets Dick’s storm run its course, though he keeps half his attention on the quiet figure to his right. Tim has been subdued since they collected him from S.T.A.R.S., his usual sharpness wrapped in fatigue. There is no panic in him, no tears—just that stillness Bruce has come to recognize, the one that hides more than it shows.

Finally, Dick takes a breath, his words slowing but no less heated. “You know what? Forget revoked licenses. Next time I see them, I’ll—no, scratch that—I’ll drag them back here and make them sit through an entire lecture series on basic parenting. One of those eight-hour videos they make you watch in traffic school. Maybe with pop quizzes. Multiple choice: ‘What do you do when your kid is hungry? A) Abandon them. B) Feed them. C) Put them in a police station and hope for the best.’” He throws Bruce a look in the rearview mirror. “Can you believe this?”

Tim finally speaks, his voice small but clear. “If…” He hesitates, fingers curling into the hem of his jacket. “If my parents want me to come to the city again, and when they leave me again… is it okay if I still come with them? I like the people here.”

The car goes quiet. The lights passing outside slow into long streaks, painting the silence in gold and shadow.

Tim doesn’t look at either of them. His eyes are fixed firmly on his lap now, on the way his hands knot together. His next words are softer still, almost swallowed by the hum of the road. “Will you still come get me even after then?”

Dick twists in his seat so fast it startles Tim into glancing up. His older brother’s eyes are wide, stricken, as if the very question knocks the air out of him. “Tim,” Dick says, urgent and certain all at once. “Hey. Look at me.” He waits until Tim’s dark eyes flicker to his. “You could call me in the middle of the night, from the other side of the world, and I’d be there so fast I’d break records. You’re not stuck with them—you’ve got us. You’ve always got us.”

Tim blinks at him, lips parting just slightly, as though weighing whether to believe it.

Bruce speaks then, his voice low and steady, cutting through the quiet like the promise it is. “You never have to wonder about that, Timothy. No matter where you are, we’ll come for you.”

Something flickers across Tim’s face—relief, surprise, the kind of aching hope no child should have to feel. He leans, tentative at first, then fully, into Bruce’s side. His small head rests against Bruce’s arm, and Bruce adjusts the steering wheel with one hand so the boy has room to settle there.

In the mirror, Bruce catches Dick watching, his stormy expression softening.

Dick reaches out, ruffling Tim’s hair gently. “Doesn’t change the fact that if your dad shows his face, I’m still punching him. Just once. For educational purposes.”

Tim lets out a laugh—small, breathy, but real. It lifts the heaviness in the car just enough for all three of them to breathe easier.

Bruce drives on, silent, thoughtful. The city lights thin as they near the outskirts, the night growing darker. He feels the weight of Tim’s slight form pressed against him, hears the faint rhythm of the boy’s breathing.

And Bruce realizes, not for the first time, how extraordinary it is that this child—sharp-eyed, self-contained, stubbornly polite—has managed to find his people here. Not in his parents, but in S.T.A.R.S. officers who made room for him, and now, once again, in them. In this strange overlap of worlds, Tim has carved out a place where he belongs.

Bruce’s jaw tightens, though not in anger. It is a vow forming, quiet and unspoken: no matter how many times the Drakes fail, Tim will not be left alone.

The car continues through the night, carrying them toward the waiting jet, and for the first time since stepping into this city, Tim closes his eyes—not from weariness, but because, finally, he feels safe enough to rest.

Chapter Text

The Batcave is quiet except for the low hum of the Batcomputer, its glow stretching long across the cavern floor. Tim sits on a high stool at the workbench, his legs swinging as he scribbles observations in a small notebook. Beside him, Bruce leans over a set of crime scene photos, his voice low but patient as he asks, “What do you notice here?”

Tim peers at the blurry image of a car on surveillance. “The reflection,” he says instantly, tapping the glass with his pencil. His eyes light up, unable to hide the pride bubbling up inside him. “Look—on the window. The jacket. It’s the same guy from the other shot. He doesn’t even know he gave himself away.”

Bruce’s lips twitch—almost a smile—and he gives a short nod. “Good work.”

Tim beams openly now, grinning so wide it makes his cheeks ache. He doesn’t try to smother it. Not anymore.

The whir of the elevator cuts through the cave, and then comes Dick’s voice, loud and mischievous. “Okay, don’t freak out, but I’ve just solved a major case.”

Bruce glances up, cautious. Tim twists on his stool, bright-eyed.

Dick marches forward with a garment bag slung over one shoulder, like a conquering hero returning from battle. “Gentlemen,” he announces, dropping the bag onto the table with a thump, “tonight, we are making history.”

Bruce’s brow furrows. “We’re in the middle of training.”

“Correction: you were in the middle of training,” Dick counters, already unzipping the bag. “Now you’re in the middle of the greatest holiday of all time.”

Out comes a crooked-eared Batman costume, clearly meant for Dick, and a smaller, brighter red-and-green ensemble. Tim gasps, audibly, his whole face lighting up.

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “No.”

“Yes!” Dick shoots back, his grin unstoppable. He drops into a crouch so he’s eye-level with Tim, whose bouncing legs give away how hard he’s trying not to explode with questions. “Tell me, genius—have you ever gone trick-or-treating?”

Tim shakes his head quickly, hair bouncing. “No.”

Dick gasps like someone shot him. “Bruce. Bruce. Did you hear that? He’s eight years old and he’s never gone trick or treating. This is an emergency. A crisis.” He presses a hand to his chest. “Gotham may be full of crime, but this is the real injustice. Besides, it’s not as if people would connect the real Batman with our silly costumes!”

Tim laughs—really laughs, the kind that bursts out of him in a high giggle he doesn’t even try to hide. “What’s trick or treating like?”

Dick’s grin softens into something gentler. “It’s magic. You dress up, knock on doors, say ‘trick or treat,’ and strangers hand you candy. No puzzles, no locked doors, no catch,  no gloomy cops glaring at you. Just fun.”

Tim’s eyes go wide. “And I get to wear… that?” He points at the small costume with a kind of reverence, his fingers twitching like he’s afraid to touch it.

“Yep. Robin,” Dick says proudly. “My partner. My little brother. Tonight? My candy-getting partner in crime.”

Tim can’t hold it in. He bounces on the stool, fists clutched against his chest as he grins so big his eyes nearly disappear. “Yes! Yes, I want to!” He hops off the stool, nearly tripping in his hurry to touch the fabric.

Bruce sighs, long-suffering, but his eyes soften as he watches the boy practically vibrate with excitement. He doesn’t miss the way Tim clutches the costume like it’s treasure, or the joy in his face that no case ever pulled out of him before.

Dick ruffles Tim’s hair. “See? Case closed. This is happening.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. Not when Tim looks this alive.

Because for all of Tim’s brilliance, for all of his sharp instincts, he’s still a kid. One who has never had the chance to laugh in excitement over a costume, never runs from door to door with a candy bag in hand.

Tonight, that changes.

And Bruce—despite the exasperation tugging at his mouth—lets it happen.

—

Wayne Manor feels different tonight. Warmer. The great halls echo not with silence, but with laughter and the sound of running feet.

Alfred stands in the middle of the dressing room with his arms folded, watching with the long-suffering patience only a butler can muster. Before him are his two charges: one eight-year-old positively glowing with excitement, and one sixteen-going-on-seventeen-year-old disaster of a man who cannot, apparently, figure out how to wear pants.

“Alfred, the cape’s stuck again,” Dick complains, half inside, half outside his Batman costume. He’s flapping one arm uselessly like a penguin.

“It is not the cape, Master Dick,” Alfred says dryly, moving forward to tug the fabric free. “It is the fact that you attempted to put it on backward. Again.”

Tim laughs so hard he nearly falls off the little bench where Alfred sat him to change. He clutches the red tunic of his Robin costume to his chest, cheeks flushed pink from giggles.

“You’re supposed to be Batman,” Tim teases through peals of laughter. “You can’t even dress yourself!”

Dick whirls, striking a heroic pose despite the cowl sitting askew on his head. “That’s because I need my Robin to keep me in check!”

Tim beams at the word Robin, his grin so bright it could light the entire manor. He wriggles into the costume with Alfred’s help, tugging at the green gloves once they’re snug on his hands. His eyes sparkle as he looks down at himself—bright red vest, short cape, little domino mask waiting on the vanity.

“I look like a real hero,” Tim whispers, awe bleeding through his voice.

Alfred’s stern expression softens at once. “You look precisely how a hero ought to look, Master Tim.” He crouches to fix the clasp on Tim’s cape, his fingers quick and precise. “Courageous, and more than a touch mischievous.”

Tim’s chest puffs up with pride. He wriggles, bouncing in place as though he might take flight just by sheer enthusiasm. “I can’t believe I get to wear this,” he says, louder this time, unable to hide his grin. “I look like your partner, Dick!”

“You don’t just look like it,” Dick says, finally wrestling his cowl into place. He points at Tim with all the solemnity he can fake. “You are my partner tonight. My one and only. We’re going to clear out the neighborhood’s candy supply, little bro.”

Tim lets out a cheer, so loud Alfred almost winces. He doesn’t care. His excitement is pure, unguarded, the kind of joy Alfred hasn’t seen in the boy since he first arrived in the manor.

Of course, Dick immediately ruins the moment by tripping on his cape.

“Honestly, Master Dick,” Alfred sighs, hauling him upright by the collar. “One would think you had never worn a costume in your life.”

“Hey!” Dick protests. “These things are tricky! Capes are a menace!”

Tim giggles so hard he nearly tumbles from the bench again. “Maybe you’re the menace.”

“Traitor,” Dick says, but he’s smiling too, and he reaches down to ruffle Tim’s hair through the domino mask.

Alfred shakes his head, fighting a smile of his own. The sight before him is ridiculous—one oversized Bat tangled in his cape, one pint-sized Robin bouncing with glee—but it is also precious. For tonight, Tim is not a lonely boy abandoned by careless parents. 

Tonight, he is simply Robin, the partner to the world’s clumsiest Batman, glowing with joy at his very first Halloween.

And Alfred, with quiet precision, makes sure both capes sit straight as they head out into the night.

—

Gotham on Halloween looks like a city wearing a mask of its own. The usual grit and smog are still there, clinging to every brick and gutter, but tonight they’re painted over with paper bats, glowing jack-o’-lanterns, and fake cobwebs strung between lampposts. Children in costumes flood the sidewalks in noisy clusters, the air full of sugar and smoke from cheap fog machines. For once, the laughter of kids drowns out the sirens.

And weaving right into the middle of it are two caped figures—one large, one small—moving house to house with the same intensity other people reserve for high-stakes missions.

“Trick or treat!” Tim shouts, voice high and clear, his little pumpkin bucket thrust forward with the confidence of a kid who knows he’s about to win.

The neighbor—a woman dressed as a witch, her green hat tilted precariously—coos at the sight of him. “Oh, look at you! What a handsome Robin!” She drops three chocolate bars into his bucket, and Tim’s eyes go so wide they practically glow.

He spins around to look at Dick, who is crouched beside him, grinning through a Batman mask that doesn’t quite fit. “Did you see that? Three bars! That’s like—a full stash!”

Dick ruffles his hair, his voice bubbling with pride. “And that’s just house number four. We’re gonna need Alfred to bring a second bucket by the end of the block.”

Tim laughs, his cape swishing around his legs as he bounces in place. He’s buzzing with the kind of excitement that refuses to be contained, the kind that makes his chest feel too small to hold everything inside.

Alfred, following at a measured pace behind them, hides a small smile behind the rim of his thermos. He carries himself like a dignified guardian among the chaos, one hand occasionally darting out to straighten Tim’s cape or tug Dick’s mask back into place when it slips over his eyes. “Do remember, Master Dick,” Alfred says mildly, “that one cannot be both Batman and a walking safety hazard at the same time.”

Dick laughs, “Sure I can, Alf. That’s half my charm!”

Tim looks up at him with sparkling eyes. “He’s right, Alfred. He’s still Batman, even if he trips on his cape.”

“Traitor,” Dick mutters, but his grin never falters.

Above them, the real Batman is a shadow among shadows. Bruce trails across rooftops, cape whispering as he leaps from ledge to ledge, eyes fixed on his family below. Every alley is scanned, every movement catalogued. Even on Halloween, Gotham is Gotham—there are still predators hiding behind masks of their own. But none of them will get anywhere near his boys. Not tonight.

Still, something in him eases as he watches Tim skip from house to house, his laugh ringing clear against the city’s gloom. Tim isn’t calculating or guarded or trying to prove himself tonight—he’s just a kid, living fully in the moment. Bruce breathes in deeply, and for the first time in too long, the air doesn’t feel heavy.

“Dick, look!” Tim gasps suddenly, pointing at a house two doors down. Its front yard is choked with artificial fog, tombstones jutting at crooked angles, orange lights glowing eerily behind plastic skeletons. A figure in a monster mask paces the porch. “That one looks scary! Do we still go?”

Dick’s grin is immediate, wide and reckless. “Of course we do. We’re Batman and Robin. We laugh in the face of scary.”

Tim stares, caught between awe and nerves, before breaking into a smile so bright it could rival the jack-o’-lanterns. “Yeah. We laugh in the face of scary.”

Alfred sighs, adjusting his coat with the air of a man resigned to his fate. “Very well. But should you two become hopelessly ensnared by a fog machine, I shall not be the one calling the fire brigade. You will explain yourselves to the Commissioner personally.”

Tim giggles so hard he almost drops his bucket. “Alfred, you’d never let us get stuck in a fog machine.”

“Indeed,” Alfred says gravely. “Which is why I advise you not to test me.”

They march through the fog together, Dick’s hand steady on Tim’s shoulder, Alfred’s steady presence behind them, and Bruce gliding silently above like a guardian shadow. The man in the monster mask leaps forward with a roar, and Tim yelps—then bursts into delighted laughter as candy rains into his bucket anyway.

By the time they reach the end of the block, Tim is practically vibrating with energy. “I can’t believe this is real,” he says breathlessly. “People just… give you candy. For nothing. Just because you’re dressed up!”

“That,” Dick says with a dramatic flourish of his too-big cape, “is the magic of Halloween, little bird.”

Tim clutches his bucket like it’s sacred treasure, chocolate bars and lollipops rattling inside. For once, he doesn’t think about Gotham’s dangers or puzzles or being clever enough for Bruce. For once, he’s just a boy, and tonight is perfect.

And from above, Batman keeps watch. Every shadow checked, every rooftop cleared, every heartache shielded from the boy below.

Tonight, the city belongs to laughter, candy, and a child who finally knows what it feels like to be wanted.

—

The bucket of candy is heavy now, but Tim refuses to let anyone else carry it. His fingers are red from the plastic handle digging in, but he holds it with stubborn pride as they walk down the last stretch of Gotham’s Halloween-lit streets. His cape flutters behind him, shoes scuffing against cracked pavement as he turns in every direction, unwilling to miss a single flickering pumpkin light or giggling child darting past.

Dick stretches, yawning exaggeratedly. “All right, little bird. I think you won this year. Best costume, biggest candy haul, loudest laugh.” He leans down with a conspiratorial grin. “But don’t tell Batman, okay? He gets jealous when someone else beats his record.”

Tim snickers, hugging the candy bucket tighter. “You’re not even Batman. You’re discount Batman.”

Alfred clears his throat behind them, though his lips twitch with amusement. “And yet, Master Tim, it would seem your loyalties are easily swayed by the promise of caramel.”

Tim sticks his tongue out, then darts ahead a few steps, his cape snapping dramatically. He stops suddenly and looks up at the skyline. Gotham is glowing tonight—lamplight, jack-o’-lanterns, paper bats taped to windows, the occasional string of orange and purple lights in apartment windows. It isn’t perfect, but it’s the city in a softer mask, and for Tim, it feels like magic.

“Wait,” Tim says suddenly, spinning back to face Dick and Alfred. His eyes sparkle, already bright with an idea. “We need a picture. Here. All three of us.”

“A picture?” Dick arches a brow, already fishing for Tim’s phone in his pocket. “You mean a selfie?”

Tim nods furiously. “Yeah. With the decorations in the background. I want to remember this. It’s my first one.”

Alfred blinks once, then smiles—soft and fond. He steps closer, one gloved hand brushing Tim’s hair into place with a precision that makes Dick groan.

“Alfred, it’s Halloween,” Dick mutters, “not the Queen’s portrait.”

“Nevertheless, Master Dick,” Alfred replies smoothly, “one ought not immortalize messy hair.”

Tim giggles, then tugs both of them close. Dick crouches down on his right, Alfred leans in on his left, and Tim angles the phone carefully. Behind them, Gotham glows with flickering pumpkins and crooked decorations. Dick is grinning wide and toothy, Alfred looks properly dignified but warm, and Tim—Tim is glowing. A real, unguarded, delighted smile that lights his whole face.

Click. The photo captures everything.

Tim stares at it for a moment, his chest swelling with something he can’t name but knows he’ll never let go of. Then, with a decisive nod, he starts tapping furiously.

First, Sherry.

Tim: Look! 🎃🦇(attached: the photo of him, Dick, and Alfred)

Tim: My first halloween!!

Tim: I got so much candy Sherry you’re gonna be jealous

He hesitates, then adds—

Tim: Wish you were here, though.

And then, the group chat. He grins as he scrolls to the chat labeled: S.T.A.R.S. 💥🍭 (Jill’s doing, he’s sure).

Tim: Missioned accomplished!! Candy secured!!

Tim: (attached: photo)

Tim: Happy Halloween from Gotham 🎃👻🦇

The typing bubbles start almost immediately.

Jill: …okay I’m officially adopting you. 

Chris: Kid, you look awesome. But why does Grayson’s mask look crooked?

Barry: Forget the mask—look at the haul! That bucket’s a gold mine!

Jill: 🤣 i noticed that you type like the two oldies here. very prim and proper, lol.

Barry: Don’t bully the kid, Valentine. He’s a billionaire heir, of course he’s prim and proper.

Tim: Hey! I sensed the sarcasm there >:(

Rebecca: i spy your butler smiling. that’s rarer than an s-rank in lab work.

Tim beams at the screen, his heart so full it almost aches. He hugs the phone close for a second before carefully tucking it into his pocket.

Above, on the rooftop, Bruce watches his son clutch the phone like it’s treasure, his small shoulders shaking with laughter as his makeshift family leans close. He exhales slowly, something tight in his chest finally, finally loosening.

—

The manor doors swing open with a soft groan, Alfred taking the boys’ cloaks as Tim bounces on his feet, clutching his pumpkin-shaped bucket like it’s treasure. His cape is askew, domino mask still halfway on his face, and he looks every inch a little hero who just conquered Halloween.

Dick, still glowing with triumph, carries his own plastic bag sagging with candy. “Not bad for our first run, huh, baby bird?”

Tim beams. “Best night ever.”

He marches toward the grand staircase, only for a large shadow to block his way. Bruce stands there, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but his eyes flicker to the bucket.

Tim stops mid-step, clutching his pumpkin tighter. “No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s mine.”

“It needs to be checked,” Bruce says evenly, voice full of that gravitas that makes hardened criminals tremble. “You never know.”

Dick snorts, grinning ear to ear. “Timmy, you just got Batman’d.”

Tim narrows his eyes, hugging the bucket closer. “But I already promised Sherry I’d save her a bat lollipop.”

“You’ll get it back,” Bruce assures him. He crouches slightly so he’s at Tim’s level, extending a hand. “All of it. After I make sure it’s safe.”

Tim hesitates. He’s knows Bruce is right—he’s Batman, after all, and Batman is never wrong about these things. But his chest tightens as he stares at the candy, the night’s victory, his proof that he did Halloween just like every other kid.

“…you’re not gonna eat any, right?” His voice is tiny, suspicious.

Bruce’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “I don’t eat candy.”

Dick pipes up, offended. “Hey! I do!”

“Yeah, and you sneak it when Alfred isn’t looking,” Tim shoots back, emboldened by his pout.

Dick gasps, clutching his chest. “Et tu, Timmy?”

Tim giggles despite himself, then sighs dramatically. With all the gravity of a wronged monarch, he extends the pumpkin bucket toward Bruce. “Fine. Take it. My candy life is in your hands now.”

Bruce accepts the bucket solemnly, as if Tim just handed him state secrets. “You’ll get it back in the morning.”

Dick slings an arm around Tim’s shoulders, leaning down to whisper, “Don’t worry, I’ll steal some back for you.”

Tim lights up. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Richard,” Bruce warns without looking up, already sorting through the bucket like a forensic scientist.

Dick coughs. “Kidding! Totally kidding.” Then he stage-whispers to Tim, “We’ll just raid Alfred’s cookie stash instead.”

Tim giggles, the sound bouncing off the Manor’s high ceilings. His shoulders relax, the earlier pout melting away into sleepy smiles. His candy may be under lock and key tonight, but he’s warm, safe, and—most importantly—he knows Batman’s on his side.

—

The living room’s lights glow warm against the autumn night pressing at the windows. Bruce is still hunched over the table like a detective reviewing evidence, each piece of candy laid out in neat rows as though they’re suspects in a case file.

Tim leans sideways into Dick on the couch, eyelids drooping despite his stubborn effort to stay awake. The adrenaline of costumes and running door to door has long since burned out, leaving only sugar-crash fatigue and the faint stickiness of candy corn on his fingertips.

Alfred enters with the softest of footsteps, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes sweep the scene: Bruce methodical and grim-faced over fun-sized chocolate bars, Dick looking far too smug, Tim fighting a losing battle against sleep. A quiet sigh escapes him, equal parts affection and exasperation.

“I believe, Master Tim,” Alfred says gently, “that your evening has concluded quite successfully. However, it is high time for you to retire.”

Tim perks up faintly. “But… my candy—”

“Is being handled with the utmost professionalism,” Alfred replies, giving Bruce a dry look. “You may reclaim it in the morning.”

Tim huffs but doesn’t argue this time. He’s already too tired. Dick scoops him up before he can protest further, settling him easily on his hip.

“C’mon, Little Bat,” Dick says, carrying him toward the stairs. “You conquered Halloween. You get your victory lap in bed.”

Tim mumbles something about not being little, but his head rests against Dick’s shoulder anyway, soft and trusting. Alfred follows them upstairs, smoothing down the boy’s crooked cape as they go.

In Tim’s room, Dick sets him down on the bed. Alfred moves in like clockwork, removing the mask, tugging off the tiny gloves, and folding the miniature cape neatly at the foot of the bed. “There now. Comfortable?”

Tim yawns, blinking slowly. “…Yeah. Thanks, Alfred.”

“You’re most welcome, young sir.” Alfred pulls the blanket up, tucking it around Tim with practiced precision.

Tim is seconds away from sleep when Dick crouches beside the bed and, with all the stealth of a stage magician, produces a single chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a napkin. His grin is wicked. “Emergency ration. Don’t tell Batman.”

Tim’s eyes go wide. “You’re the best,” he whispers, hugging the cookie like treasure.

Alfred, standing at the foot of the bed, arches an unimpressed brow. “I trust you both understand that I am not blind.”

Dick freezes, caught red-handed. Tim giggles into his blanket.

But Alfred only shakes his head, faint amusement slipping past his usual composure. “One cookie is permissible. Provided, of course, you brush your teeth after.”

Tim beams, too happy and too sleepy to argue. He takes a bite, crumbs already dusting the blanket. His eyelids flutter, cookie still clutched in one hand, as sleep finally wins.

Dick watches his little brother drift off, then whispers, “Totally worth it.”

Alfred merely straightens the folded cape, voice low and steady. “Indeed.”

—

The dining room smells faintly of coffee and toast, with sunlight spilling in golden stripes through the tall windows. Alfred presides at the head of the table like a general at breakfast inspection, while Dick sits slouched in his chair, still half in his pajamas, chewing on a slice of toast like it’s been personally inconveniencing him.

And Tim?

Tim is vibrating in his seat.

His eyes keep flicking toward the large plastic pumpkin set neatly on the table—its orange grin stuffed with candy and its contents obviously reorganized by someone meticulous enough to alphabetize the fun-sized bars.

Bruce enters the room at last, suit already immaculate, expression as serious as if he’s about to brief the Justice League. In his hands, he carries a folder. And in that folder—Tim knows—is his candy audit.

Dick snorts into his toast. “You actually made a case file for Snickers?”

Bruce ignores him, sets the folder down, and flips it open. He clears his throat with the weight of a man about to deliver an official verdict. “The candy haul has been examined. Five questionable wrappers were disposed of. Two pieces of hard candy deemed choking hazards were removed. Everything else—cleared.”

Tim’s mouth drops open. “You confiscated?”

“Safety first,” Bruce says evenly. “I’m not compromising on this.”

Tim slumps dramatically. “That’s, like, ten percent of my haul.”

“Two percent,” Bruce corrects, sliding the pumpkin across the table toward him. “The rest is yours.”

Tim immediately digs in, triumphant, while Dick leans over and mutters, “Don’t worry, Tiny. I’ll sneak you one of the confiscated pieces later. It’s probably just Werther’s Originals.”

“I heard that,” Bruce says without looking up from his coffee.

Alfred smoothly intervenes before the debate escalates. “Master Timothy, do pace yourself. We wouldn’t want a sugar crash before lunch.”

Tim hums his agreement through a mouthful of chocolate, already sorting the rest into piles with the same precision Bruce used last night. KitKats on one side, lollipops on the other, M&M’s in their own sacred mountain.

Dick watches him, smiling. “You’re organizing your loot?”

Tim nods earnestly. “It’s a system. Trade potential, best-before-dates, favorite tiers. Gotta have a strategy.”

Bruce hides a flicker of a smile behind his coffee mug. Alfred, however, sees it. He says nothing, but the faint arch of his brow is enough to betray his amusement.

—

The manor smells different today.

Usually, it carries the faint, crisp scent of polish and old books, the earthy musk of leather and wood smoke. But today—Thanksgiving Day—it smells like home in a way Tim has never known before.

The scent hits him the moment he wanders into the kitchen mid-morning, socked feet sliding across polished floors. Roasted herbs. Butter melting over something warm. The unmistakable, mouthwatering perfume of turkey, crisping in the oven.

He stops short at the doorway.

Alfred stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands moving with the economy of someone who has cooked this exact spread a hundred times before. But there’s something in the air—an extra shine on the silverware laid out, an extra carefulness in the arrangement of dishes waiting to be plated. The kitchen feels alive with quiet purpose.

“Whoa,” Tim breathes, stepping closer. “What’s all this?”

Alfred glances up, the barest smile flickering across his face. “Thanksgiving, Master Tim. A proper dinner, as it ought to be done.”

Tim frowns slightly, tilting his head. “But… there’s only four of us.”

“Precisely,” Alfred replies, turning back to the turkey with a brisk efficiency that dares Tim to question it further. “Which means more for everyone.”

It doesn’t sound like an answer, but Tim knows better than to push. He just lingers, peering into pots and pans, stealing an olive from a dish when Alfred isn’t looking (except Alfred is always looking).

By the time evening rolls around, the dining room table has transformed. Gleaming silver. Candles casting soft light. Crystal glasses filled with cider that sparkles like amber. And food—so much food.

The turkey sits in the center like a crown jewel, golden brown, surrounded by mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, cranberry sauce, fresh bread rolls, stuffing, gravy in silver boats. Dishes that Tim doesn’t even know the names of line the table.

“Alfred,” Dick says as he takes it all in, eyes wide. “You cooked for, like, twenty people.”

Alfred only raises a brow. “Did I? How careless of me.”

Bruce is already in his seat, composed as ever, though even he can’t completely hide the flicker of surprise at the sheer abundance. Tim, meanwhile, is practically bouncing as he climbs into his chair, eyes darting over every dish like he’s planning a heist.

“This is—” Tim blurts, then stops. His throat goes tight. He swallows hard, trying again. “This is… amazing.”

“Wait till you taste it, Tiny,” Dick grins, already piling food onto Tim’s plate before his own. “Alfred could open a restaurant tomorrow and people would line up around the block.”

Alfred sniffs. “Perish the thought.”

Dinner begins, and Tim discovers what it means to eat until you physically cannot anymore.

The turkey melts in his mouth. The mashed potatoes are whipped to clouds, swimming in gravy that might actually be addictive. The stuffing is savory perfection. And the pies—pumpkin and pecan—loom in the background like delicious threats.

Tim eats like he’s making up for eight years of missed Thanksgivings, because in a way, he is. Each bite is joy and bewilderment, a new tradition soaking into his bones.

He doesn’t notice when he slows, leaning back in his chair, until Dick laughs. “You’re tapping out already?”

Tim groans, clutching his stomach. “I think… I think I broke myself.”

Bruce sets down his fork with the faintest smirk. “A common rookie mistake.”

“I warned you about pacing,” Alfred says dryly, though his eyes soften when they linger on Tim.

Tim huffs, cheeks pink, but then he grins weakly. “Best… mistake… ever.”

The table falls into an easy rhythm after that. Bruce listens more than he talks, but there’s a warmth in his silence, his gaze softening every time it drifts to his boys. Dick, ever the chaos agent, turns dinner into a contest—who can eat the most rolls, who can stack the tallest pile of turkey on their plate without toppling it. Tim gamely joins in, even if he’s already too full.

And Alfred—he moves quietly around them, topping off cider, passing dishes, keeping everything flowing. But when he thinks no one’s watching, he lingers at the edge of the room, eyes softening at the sight of them: his three boys, together, at one table, under one roof.

For Alfred, it isn’t the food. It’s the family.

Later, when the plates are cleared and Tim has all but melted into the couch in the living room, pie plate balanced precariously on his lap, Dick flops down beside him with exaggerated groans.

“Ugh. I’m going to be in a food coma till Christmas.”

“You always say that,” Bruce says mildly from the armchair, newspaper in hand.

“This time I mean it.”

Tim giggles, half-asleep, the sound muffled against Dick’s shoulder. His stomach hurts from eating too much, but for once, it doesn’t matter. For once, the ache is good, a reminder that there’s warmth in this house, and a place for him at the table.

And Alfred, from the doorway, watches his family sink into comfort, quietly satisfied that Thanksgiving has finally come to Wayne Manor—just as it should.

—

Wayne Manor, the night of the Annual Thanksgiving Gala.

For weeks, Gotham’s high society has whispered about it—the grand event hosted in the name of the Martha Wayne Foundation, an evening of glittering gowns, champagne towers, and quiet power deals whispered in corners. Everyone wants to be invited. Everyone who is anyone is invited.

And in the middle of it all, two boys are plotting treason.

Tim sits on the edge of his bed, already trapped in his tiny black suit, tie crooked from his half-hearted attempt at dressing himself. At eight years old, he’s decided that suits are prisons made of fabric, and ties are the gallows. His hair is neatly combed thanks to Alfred’s earlier intervention, but he keeps ruffling it up again when he thinks no one is watching.

Across the room, Dick is sprawled on the carpet in his own suit, legs stretched out dramatically, head tipped back as though he’s suffering the worst torture in history. At sixteen, he perfected the art of theatrics. “We can’t do this, Timmy,” Dick groans, covering his eyes with one hand. “We’ll suffocate in there. Drowned in perfume. Buried alive in small talk. Do you know what small talk does to me?”

Tim nods gravely. “Kills your brain cells.”

“Exactly. You get it.” Dick peeks through his fingers. “You’re supposed to be the smart one. Surely you’ve got an escape plan.”

Tim bites his lip. He does have one, scribbled down on notebook paper: sneak out the service stairs, past the kitchen, through the garden, and hide in the Batcave until midnight. Foolproof. At least, it was, until Alfred confiscated the paper at breakfast without even glancing at it.

“You realize,” Dick mutters, “Alfred probably has the manor under lockdown tonight. He’s got eyes everywhere.”

Tim thinks of Alfred’s uncanny ability to appear in doorways exactly when you least want him there. The man is unstoppable. He sighs, shoulders sagging. “We’re doomed.”

“Not doomed.” Dick sits up, finger raised in defiance. “Just… temporarily delayed.”

A knock at the door.

“Master Richard. Master Timothy.” Alfred’s voice floats through the door, crisp and dry. “If you are finished scheming, it is time to depart.”

Tim shoots Dick a look of sheer betrayal. “He knows.”

“Of course he knows,” Dick whispers back. “He always knows!”

The door opens anyway, and Alfred stands framed in the hall, immaculate in his own tuxedo, not a hair out of place. He takes one look at Tim’s crooked tie, one at Dick’s scuffed shoes, and sighs the sigh of a man who has spent too many years wrangling Waynes.

“Stand up. Both of you,” Alfred commands.

Dick tries a grin. “What if we just… don’t?”

Alfred’s eyebrow arches in a way that could make Gotham’s most hardened criminals confess their sins. Without another word, Dick scrambles upright. Tim follows suit, tugging nervously at his sleeves.

In five minutes, Alfred has straightened their ties, polished Dick’s shoes with a handkerchief pulled from nowhere, and produced lint brushes like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. By the end of it, both Grayson and Drake look as though they were born for gala halls instead of alleyways and dark rooftops.

“There,” Alfred declares, stepping back. “Presentable.”

Tim mutters under his breath, “Prisoners of war.”

“I heard that, Master Tim.”

Bruce is waiting for them downstairs, already in full billionaire mode. He looks every inch the man the tabloids call Gotham’s golden prince—calm, poised, suit cut to perfection. When he sees them descend the grand staircase, he inclines his head ever so slightly. Approval.

“Try to smile, both of you,” Bruce says as they pile into the waiting car. “It won’t kill you.”

“It might,” Dick grumbles.

—

The gala is already in full swing by the time they arrive. Chandeliers blaze overhead, crystal catching the light like diamonds. Waiters drift through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The air hums with the polite chatter of Gotham’s elite.

Tim clings to Dick’s side like a shadow, wide-eyed. 

“Remember,” Alfred murmurs from behind them, guiding them forward with subtle pressure on their shoulders. “Smile. Nod. If someone pinches your cheek, Master Tim, endure it with dignity. And if anyone attempts to lure you into discussing stocks, Master Dick, pretend to see someone you know and retreat.”

Dick leans down to whisper in Tim’s ear. “Translation: Alfred has taught us the art of social stealth.”

Tim stifles a giggle, quickly smothered when a woman in pearls descends upon them with cooing remarks about “how darling” Tim looks. He endures, as ordered, though his cheeks burn.

Bruce, meanwhile, floats through the room like a shadow in daylight—shaking hands, offering practiced smiles, fielding conversations with the ease of someone who’s done this his entire life, his Brucie persona out in full force. But Tim notices, every few minutes, Bruce’s eyes flick toward him and Dick, making sure they’re still within Alfred’s iron orbit.

The food is the only saving grace. Tiny plates of delicacies Tim can’t even name. But Alfred intercepts him each time he tries to fill both hands with hors d’oeuvres, offering instead a single canapé and a glass of apple cider.

Hours crawl by. The music swells, couples dance, speeches are made. Dick tries twice to sneak them toward the balcony, but Alfred appears out of thin air each time, steering them back inside with polite insistence.

Finally, near the end of the night, Tim slumps against Dick, whispering, “We didn’t make it out.”

Dick sighs, ruffling his hair gently. “We’ll live. Barely.”

And though Tim pouts, eyes heavy, he finds himself leaning into the warmth of family even amidst the glittering strangers. The gala may be a battlefield, but at least he’s not fighting it alone.

From across the room, Alfred catches his eye and allows the barest flicker of a smile. Victory, for tonight, belongs to him.

—

By the time the car pulls back into the long Wayne Manor driveway, Tim has gone boneless against Dick’s side, tie askew and hair falling into his face. He fought valiantly through the endless hours of strangers’ compliments and polite smiles, with their condolences that his parents couldn’t come, but his energy ran out halfway through the second speech of the night.

Dick isn’t much better—he slumps in his seat with his jacket unbuttoned, the picture of a man who barely survived a war.

Bruce looks perfectly composed. Not a wrinkle in his suit, not a hair out of place. He checks his watch calmly as Alfred opens the door for them.

Inside the manor, the glitter of the gala is replaced with the quiet warmth of home. The lights are softer, the air smells faintly of polish and tea. Dick practically collapses onto the nearest couch, dragging Tim with him so the boy lands half on his lap.

“Never again,” Dick mutters into the cushions. “I mean it. Never again.”

Tim, his voice muffled against Dick’s sleeve, adds, “We didn’t even escape once.”

Bruce walks past them, removing his cufflinks with practiced ease. “You did well.”

“That was not ‘well,’ Bruce. That was a hostage situation,” Dick fires back. “We deserve hazard pay.”

Bruce doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he disappears into his study.

That leaves Alfred. Always Alfred. He reappears with two glasses of water, setting them down on the coffee table with a quiet clink. His expression is unreadable, but the glint in his eyes suggests he knows exactly how dramatic they’re about to get.

“You handled yourselves admirably this evening,” Alfred says, folding his hands behind his back. “You endured with grace, you smiled when required, and neither of you overturned a canapé tray.”

“High bar,” Dick mumbles.

Tim sits up enough to grab a glass of water. His small face is still pale from exhaustion, but he musters a crooked grin. “So… does this mean we don’t have to do it again?”

Alfred pauses. The silence stretches just long enough to be ominous.

“My young masters,” he begins, with that impeccable calm that spells doom, “I must remind you both that Christmas is only a month away. And as per tradition, the Wayne family hosts a gala to celebrate the season.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Dick’s eyes go wide. “No.”

Tim nearly drops his water. “No!”

“I regret to inform you,” Alfred continues, unfazed, “that it is indeed unavoidable. Attendance will, of course, be expected.”

Dick groans so loudly it echoes off the manor walls. “Alfred, we just survived one! You’re gonna throw us back into the lion’s den already?”

Tim flops onto the couch dramatically, small hands over his face. “We’ll never be free. Never.”

Alfred, with the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at his lips, retrieves a folded blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over them both. “Consider it character building.”

Tim peeks out from under his hand, eyes narrowed. “More like character breaking.”

But he still nestles under the blanket, half-asleep already, while Dick mutters curses against high society.

And Alfred? Alfred only shakes his head, collects the empty glasses, and prepares for the next battlefield.

Because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s this: no one escapes the Wayne galas. Not even Batman’s boys. Not even Batman himself.

—

The first snow of December falls like powdered sugar over Gotham, frosting rooftops, slushing the sidewalks, and turning the streets into rivers of shimmering headlights. For most of the city, it’s just another cold night. For Dick Grayson, however, it’s shopping night.

And he’s dragging one very bundled-up Timothy Drake along for the ride.

“Okay, Tiny Genius,” Dick says as he adjusts the scarf around Tim’s neck, tugging it so snugly that Tim squeaks in protest. “Rule number one: Christmas shopping is war. You’ve got to be quick, you’ve got to be clever, and you’ve got to strike before everyone else raids the shelves.”

Tim glares up at him with his best impression of Bruce’s flat stare. It doesn’t really work when his hat has a fuzzy pom-pom on top. “Rule number one is that you stop calling me Tiny Genius.”

Dick grins, unrepentant, as they step into the warmth of the first department store. The place is a jungle—rows of blinking lights, holiday displays so gaudy they’d make Joker blush, and enough shoppers to qualify as a small army.

Tim tugs Dick’s sleeve, eyes already darting like radar across the aisles. “So… who are we buying for first?”

“Alfred,” Dick says instantly. “The man deserves something spectacular. Like a lifetime supply of chamomile tea. Or socks with my face on them. Or both.”

Tim snorts. “You’re not giving him socks with your face on them.”

“Why not? They’d be conversation starters.”

“They’d be grounds for homicide.”

Despite his dry tone, Tim dives into the shelves with a kind of quiet determination. He picks out a sleek leather-bound planner, muttering, “Something practical. Something he’ll actually use.”

“Boring,” Dick singsongs. “But fine. You win round one.”

They move on. For Bruce, Dick suggests a novelty tie covered in cartoon bats. Tim, of course, vetoes it and with surgical precision, picks out a rare edition of a detective novel he spotted in the glass case of the bookstore next door.

“For the world’s greatest detective,” Tim says shyly, holding it close.

Dick’s grin softens. “Okay, yeah. That’s way better than the tie.”

By the time they’ve argued through two toy stores, a bookstore, and a candy shop, Tim is lugging a bag almost as big as himself. He’s picked out additional gifts for everyone—small trinkets for each of the S.T.A.R.S. members (a keychain for Jill, a survival manual for Barry, a puzzle book for Chris, a tiny lab kit for Rebecca), and something for Sherry too: a stuffed raccoon with a big ribbon around its neck.

“It’s ironic,” Tim admits, hugging it to his chest. “She’ll laugh.”

Dick ruffles his hair. “She’ll love it.”

And then it happens.

They wander into the decorations section, and Tim freezes. His eyes go wide at the sight of endless ornaments, shimmering garlands, and an artificial tree that nearly touches the ceiling. He’s seen Christmas decorations before—of course he has—but there’s something different about choosing them for his home, the one that actually feels like his.

He grips Dick’s sleeve tighter. “Can we… can we get some? For the manor?”

“Timmy.” Dick puts both hands on his little brother’s shoulders, eyes serious. “We’re about to deck the halls so hard Alfred will need to call in reinforcements.”

By the time they’re done, the cart is absurd. Strings of lights, boxes of ornaments, a star topper the size of Tim’s head, and enough tinsel to wrap Wayne Manor like a present.

They cap it off with hot cocoa from a street vendor outside, steam curling in the frozen air as they walk back to the car. Tim cradles his cup carefully, face lit up with the glow of the city’s decorations.

“You know,” he says after a long sip, “this is the first time I’ve ever gone shopping like this. For… family.”

Dick bumps his shoulder gently. “Get used to it, little bro. This is only the beginning. Next year, we’ll need a bigger cart.”

Tim hides a smile behind his cup, but it doesn’t hide the sparkle in his eyes.

And somewhere in the shadows of the snowy rooftops, Batman keeps silent watch, cloak blending into the night—close enough to guard them, far enough to let them have their night.

—

Wayne Manor is a fortress of stone and shadows, but tonight it hums with something lighter. The halls echo with the scrape of boxes being dragged from storage, the smell of evergreen garlands just unwrapped, and the sharp clatter of Dick nearly dropping a box of ornaments down the grand staircase.

“Careful, Master Richard!” Alfred calls from the base of the stairs, arms crossed but eyes sharp. “Those are glass. Some of them date back to Master Bruce’s grandmother.”

“They’re fine!” Dick insists, wobbling slightly as he balances the box on his hip. “Besides, if one breaks, Tim can probably glue it back together. Kid’s practically a surgeon already.”

Tim, perched on the couch with a smaller box of ornaments in his lap, rolls his eyes. “That’s not how glue works, Dick.” Still, his fingers trail gently over the shimmering decorations inside—reds, silvers, a few faded ones that look ancient. His face softens. “They’re… pretty.”

Alfred’s sternness eases a fraction as he watches Tim hold the ornament like it’s precious crystal. “Indeed they are, Master Timothy. Which is why we handle them with utmost care.”

Tim nods solemnly, though the effect is somewhat ruined when Dick drops beside him and dangles a tinsel garland over his head like a feather boa.

“Careful,” Dick teases. “You’re about to become Fabulous Robin.”

Tim bats at the tinsel with the ferocity of a kitten. “I’m not Robin yet!” But he’s grinning, eyes crinkling as he shoves the tinsel back at Dick.

Bruce enters the room silently, like he always does, and leans against the doorway. He doesn’t say anything at first—just takes in the scene: Alfred directing with military precision, Dick turning every step into a comedy routine, Tim half-lost in awe at every box they open. For a moment, Bruce imagines his parents in this same room decades ago, stringing lights, Martha laughing, Thomas balancing her on a ladder. He swallows hard and lets the memory stay quietly in his chest.

“Where’s the tree going?” Dick asks, already wrestling with the base stand.

“By the east window,” Alfred answers crisply. “It’s tradition.”

It takes the three of them—Dick, Tim, and Alfred—to maneuver the massive tree into place. Tim holds one side, determination written all over his little face, even though his strength adds almost nothing to the effort. Dick hams it up, pretending it’s an impossible feat, groaning dramatically: “We’re doomed! We’ll never get it upright!”

Tim laughs so hard he nearly tips backward. “You’re such a liar.”

“Shhh, don’t ruin the performance.”

When the tree is finally standing, Alfred steps back with a satisfied nod. “Acceptable.”

Then the chaos begins.

Dick immediately tries to string the lights by sprinting in wide circles around the tree, nearly tangling himself in the process. Alfred scolds, Bruce mutters something about safety hazards, and Tim, after five seconds of watching this circus, marches forward to untangle the mess with the precision of a field commander.

“Lights first,” he instructs firmly, small hands pulling apart knots with surprising patience. “Then ornaments. Then the star. We need a plan.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Since when did you become decoration boss?”

“Since you nearly strangled yourself,” Tim shoots back.

Alfred hides a smile behind his hand.

Hours pass in laughter, glitter, and occasional near-disasters. Dick nearly knocks over the ladder trying to place garland on the chandelier. Tim spends ten minutes trying to find the “perfect” branch for each ornament. Alfred rescues more than one fragile heirloom from certain destruction. And Bruce—quiet but steady—joins in too, placing heavier ornaments higher up where neither boy can reach.

When they finally step back, the tree is a masterpiece of gold and silver, glowing softly in the east window. All that’s left is the star.

Alfred clears his throat. “Traditionally, this honor falls to the youngest member of the household.”

Tim blinks, startled, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Indeed,” Alfred replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Who else?”

Dick is already grinning wide. “C’mon, little brother. Up you go.”

Before Tim can protest, Dick sweeps him up onto his shoulders, wobbling just enough to make Tim squeak before steadying. Bruce moves closer, one hand ready at Dick’s back just in case, eyes soft with something unspoken. Alfred hands Tim the shining silver star, and for a moment the boy stares at it, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

“Don’t drop it,” Dick whispers dramatically.

“Don’t wobble,” Tim shoots back, biting back a laugh.

He stretches, carefully placing the star on the very top branch. It catches the light, glowing golden against the evergreen.

Cheers erupt—Dick clapping like it’s a victory parade, Alfred nodding with quiet satisfaction, Bruce’s mouth curving into the smallest, rarest smile.

Tim beams down at them, his face lit not just by the star but by a happiness that feels impossibly big for his chest. For the first time in his life, he feels like he hasn’t just been included—he’s been given a place of honor.

Bruce rests his hand briefly on Tim’s small shoulder when Dick sets him down. “You did well,” he says quietly.

Tim ducks his head, cheeks burning, but his smile doesn’t fade.

—

Bruce sits alone in his study, the world outside cloaked in deep, velvety darkness, and the soft glow of his desk lamp illuminating the room like a small island of calm. The weight of the day’s chaos—Tim’s laughter echoing through the halls, Dick tripping over ornaments, Alfred scolding gently yet firmly—has finally settled, leaving behind a warmth that Bruce hasn’t felt in years.

The study, once a sanctuary of strategy and solitude, feels different tonight. Before, Wayne Manor often felt like a gilded prison: endless halls, echoing footsteps, portraits of ancestors staring down with silent judgment. Now, with Tim’s little voice, Dick’s boisterous energy, and Alfred’s quiet guiding presence, it hums with life. The walls seem to breathe. The portraits no longer weigh; they watch, perhaps approvingly, as this new chapter unfolds.

For the first time, Wayne Manor doesn’t feel like a fortress. It doesn’t feel empty. It doesn’t feel like a home with doors that lock away its inhabitants from the world. It feels alive. It feels messy. It feels chaotic, vibrant, unpredictable—and entirely, impossibly, wonderfully theirs.

Bruce leans back in his chair, fingertips brushing the edges of the photo frames, and lets himself linger in the quiet. Outside, the manor is silent. Inside, it is alive. And he thinks, almost with disbelief, how much richer, fuller, warmer life has become—all because of the two boys who call this place home.

—

Sunlight creeps through the thick curtains of Wayne Manor, spilling across the floor in soft golden slats. The quiet of dawn shivers on the edge of being broken, and then—thunder. Little feet pound across the hall, ricocheting with unrestrained energy.

“Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas!” Tim shouts, the sound shrill and joyful. He crashes into Bruce’s room first, leaping onto the bed with perfect little calculated chaos. His tiny hands poke at Bruce’s arm, tugging insistently.

Bruce stirs, voice thick with sleep. “Tim… it’s—”

“NO! It’s Christmas!” Tim interrupts gleefully, bouncing lightly on the mattress as Bruce attempts to sit up. “Presents! My stocking! You have to see!”

Bruce suppresses a smile, letting the boy’s enthusiasm wash over him. Tim squeals in delight anyway, spinning toward the door with the agility of a creature half-child, half-energy incarnate, and darts down the hall before Bruce can protest further.

Next stop: Dick’s room. Tim flings open the door and leaps onto Dick’s bed with all the precision of a gymnast. Dick groans, tangled in blankets, eyes half-open.

“Tim! Really? It’s too early for this level of energy!” Dick protests.

Tim merely grins, pointing toward the corner of the room where his presents peek from beneath the tree’s lowest branches. “Nope! Too late! It’s Christmas, Dick! You’ve gotta wake up and see!”

Dick groans again, this time surrendering, flopping back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine. But I swear… one day, your energy is going to destroy the world, and I’ll have to stop it.”

Tim throws back his head and laughs, spinning to glance at Bruce, who is now following behind, quietly amused and shaking his head. His calm presence contrasts perfectly with the boy’s whirlwind energy and Dick’s theatrical flopping.

Alfred’s voice floats up from downstairs, clipped but teasing. “Master Timothy, if this level of enthusiasm continues unchecked, I will be forced to submit a formal complaint regarding potential property damage.”

Tim pauses just long enough to grin mischievously down the hall. “Too late, Alfred! It’s Christmas! Rules don’t exist today!”

He darts back and forth for one last pass between the two rooms, checking stockings, giving each father-figure an affectionate poke, then finally streaking toward the stairs with Dick stumbling after him. Bruce follows more slowly, hands brushing the doorframes as he watches Tim’s joy ripple through the manor.

—

Tim’s eyes are practically sparkling with anticipation when they spot the larger pile of presents under the tree. Each gift is neatly wrapped, some with bright, glossy paper, others in muted tones with perfectly tied ribbons—Alfred’s handiwork unmistakable. But as he starts pulling them close, something catches his attention: a few smaller packages, unassuming yet somehow familiar.

He picks up one wrapped in soft, glitter-speckled paper, and the tag reads: “For Timothy—Love, Jill, Chris, Barry, and Rebecca.”

Tim freezes for a moment, staring at it. His heart warms faster than any Christmas light in the manor. They remembered me? He tears into it with careful urgency. Inside, there’s a tiny, hand-carved detective puzzle set, complete with miniature tools that are just his size. A small notebook with the STARS insignia embossed in silver. And a chocolate bar, because even the most brilliant detectives need sugar.

“Oh my gosh,” he murmurs, voice a mixture of disbelief and joy. His fingers brush over the notebook like it’s a treasure chest, eyes wide and gleaming.

Before he can fully process that, he spots another package, smaller, with handwriting he instantly recognizes: “To Tim—From Sherry. Can’t wait to see you next time!” He rips it open carefully, almost reverently, and finds a set of colored pencils, a small sketchbook, and a tiny charm in the shape of a duck—the same ducks they fed together in the park.

Tim’s chest tightens slightly, warmth spreading through him, the kind of warmth that isn’t just from chocolate or presents—it’s the reminder that he has friends who care, friends who notice the little things.

“Whoa… oh wow…” Tim mutters to himself, momentarily forgetting Bruce, Dick, and Alfred standing behind him. He turns to Alfred first, eyes still shining, “Alfred! Can you believe it? They actually sent me gifts!”

Alfred offers a quiet, proud smile. “It seems your friends know exactly how to make a boy feel special, Master Timothy.”

Dick, leaning casually against the wall, shakes his head with a grin. “See, Tim? You’re popular. You’ve got fans!”

Tim laughs, a little shy, a little overjoyed.

He carefully sets the gifts aside, already plotting when and how he’ll use the puzzle set, already imagining sketching his adventures with the colored pencils, and silently promising himself that he’ll thank Sherry properly next time.

Then, at last, he dives into the larger gifts under the tree, squealing with delight at every unwrapping: a miniature telescope from Bruce, a set of wearable tech gadgets from Dick, and a perfectly tailored, kid-sized detective coat. He twirls in it, mimicking Bruce’s posture, and can’t stop giggling.

Even amidst the mess of torn paper and chocolate wrappers, Tim feels perfectly, gloriously, home.

—

The manor is quieter now, wrapping paper gathered into neat piles (Alfred insisted), stockings emptied, gifts lined up like trophies on the carpet. Tim sits cross-legged in the middle of the chaos, his new detective coat draped around his shoulders, notebook and pencils already tucked beside him like they’ve found their permanent home. His phone buzzes in his hands.

First, Sherry.

Sherry: did you open it yet??

Sherry: i couldn’t think of anything cooler but the duck charm was a MUST. don’t lose it.

Tim’s face breaks into a grin. He types quickly, thumbs tapping out his excitement.

Tim: Just opened it! Best. Gift. Ever. I love the duck charm. He’s my new sidekick. He’s gonna sit on my desk and supervise all my detective cases.

Tim: You got me colored pencils too?? You remembered I like sketching!

A pause. Then, Sherry replies.

Sherry: of COURSE i remembered. you’re my best friend, duh.

Sherry: besides, if you’re gonna be a detective, you’ll need to draw suspects’ faces. free practice for you ;)

Sherry: …but TIM. did YOU send me a signed first edition of “a wrinkle in time”???

Tim smirks.

Tim: Maybe. :D

Tim: Figured you’d want a book where the kid gets to be the hero.

There’s a pause. Then her reply comes in, almost frantic.

Sherry: i’m actually crying. like. actual tears. you’re insane.

Tim laughs under his breath, a soft, happy sound. He leans back against the couch, feeling that warmth bloom again in his chest. His parents may have forgotten him—but Sherry didn’t. Neither did S.T.A.R.S.

Speaking of them.

Tim switches to the group chat.

He fires off a picture of their gifts: the puzzle set, the STARS notebook, the chocolate bar already opened and half-eaten.

Tim: Just opened these—thank you so much!!! You guys are the best!! :D

It doesn’t take long.

Barry: Kid… tell me you didn’t spend your allowance on this.

Jill: barry. he’s a drake. he’s also under the care of bruce motherfucking wayne. his “allowance” could probably buy the precinct.

Chris: Still. Tim, you didn’t have to. These are… seriously thoughtful.

Tim bites his lip, smiling. He types.

Tim: I wanted to! You guys made me feel like part of the team when I was there. This was the least I could do.

Rebecca finally chimes in.

Rebecca: least?? tim, you sent me an actual limited edition lab coat from Europe. with my name stitched on the breast. i’m gonna die.

Barry: You got me a vintage gun-cleaning kit. Polished oak case. Handmade. I almost fainted.

Jill: forget that. he got ME a custom lockpick roll. italian leather. my initials are embossed.

Chris: And me? A military-grade compass from the 1940s. Do you know how rare these are??

Tim tilts his head, pretending innocence.

Tim: Nope. :)

Jill: …he knows.

Barry: Definitely knows.

Chris: He absolutely knows.

Tim giggles, typing fast.

Tim: Okay okay maybe I know. But you can’t return them so HA.

The responses explode at once.

Jill: oh my god.

Barry: This kid is dangerous.

Rebecca: barry’s right. weapon of mass generosity.

The chat explodes with banter.

Rebecca: my coat is worth more than my tuition.

Jill: my lockpick roll is probably bulletproof.

Barry: Mine is prettier than my wedding ring. Don’t tell Kathy.

Chris: Mine belonged in a museum.

There was a pause.

Chris: Tim… seriously. Thank you. These are incredible.

Tim stares at that last message, feeling the warmth settle heavy in his chest. For a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer. He just sits there, hugging the S.T.A.R.S. notebook to his chest like it’s a shield.

Finally, he types back.

Tim: You don’t have to thank me. You gave me something too, you know. A place where I felt like I belonged. That’s priceless.

The chat goes silent for a beat. Then:

Barry: …Okay I’m not crying. YOU’RE crying.

Jill: same.

Chris: Tim, you’re part of the team. Always.

Rebecca: yeah. even if you’re pint-sized. ;)

Tim beams, duck charm dangling from his hand as he laughs out loud. Across the room, Dick calls out—“What’s so funny, Timbo?”—but Tim just hugs the notebook tighter and shakes his head.

How could he even explain? That even across miles, across cities, with oceans of secrets between them, his people remembered him—and he remembered them.

For the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel like a holiday he’s learning. It feels like something that’s his.

—

EXTRAS ;)

Barry Burton's House

Barry sits cross-legged on the floor, daughters giggling as they tear open their own presents. He doesn't expect much from the medium sized, carefully wrapped box addressed to him—kids don't usually send gifts that knock the wind out of you.

He opens it and freezes.

Nestled inside is a polished oak case, lined with green velvet, the kind of craftsmanship that screams both antique and luxury. His breath catches as he lifts the lid.

A gun-cleaning kit, complete with oil vials, brushes, and rods, all custom-fitted. The metal gleams under the living room light.

“…Oh, hell.” Barry runs a thumb across the brass handle. It’s sturdy, heavy, and real. “This is—this is museum quality.”

“Dad?” Moira tugs at his sleeve, eyes wide. “Is it good?”

Barry laughs, watery and shocked. “Good? Sweetheart, this is… incredible.” He swallows hard, imagining Tim—tiny, evil genius that he is—thinking of him when he picked this out. His throat burns.

He snaps a picture before his girls can see the mist in his eyes.

—

Jill Valentine's Apartment

Jill’s Christmas is quiet. Coffee on the counter, a candle burning low. She doesn’t expect anything except maybe Chris dropping by later.

The package from Tim nearly slips through her fingers when she opens it. She stares at the black leather roll in her hands, embossed with J.V. in gold at the flap. Curious, she unties it.

Inside: lockpicks. Dozens of them. Each slot was perfectly fitted, gleaming like jewelry. Professional grade. She recognizes designs she’s only ever seen in European catalogs that cost more than her rent.

“Oh my god.” She presses the back of her hand to her mouth.

It’s beautiful. It’s… indulgent. And it’s from Tim.

She snaps a picture of the spread on her kitchen table, typing a note that’s half a curse, half a laugh.

—

Chris Redfield's ApartmentChris isn’t expecting mail. He’s mid-workout, sweat dripping down his neck when the package catches his eye.

He tears it open—and stops dead.

In his palm rests a compass. Not just any compass—a vintage, military-issued one from the 1940s, the casing weathered brass, the glass polished clear. It’s the kind of thing paratroopers carried into the unknown.

“…Holy shit.” Chris whispers. He flips the lid, lets the needle spin. It steadies, sharp and sure.

He knows what this costs. He knows what it means.

He leans back in his chair, silent for a long time, thumb brushing the initials etched subtly on the back: For when the path gets rough.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “You’re something else, kid.”

—

Rebecca Chambers' Dorm

Rebecca sits cross-legged on her bed, textbooks stacked around her like walls. She doesn’t expect much—students don’t usually get lavish gifts.

But when she peels back the tissue paper, her breath hitches.

A lab coat. Crisp white, tailored to her size. She runs a hand over the breast pocket, and there it is: Dr. Chambers stitched neatly in navy thread.

She laughs, high-pitched and disbelieving, and falls back on her bed, coat spread across her chest. “He didn’t.”

But he did.

Her roommate peeks in. “Rebecca? Are you crying?”

“No!” she blurts, but her eyes are stinging. She pulls the coat tighter around her shoulders like armor. “Okay—maybe a little.”

She doesn’t even hesitate before snapping a photo, typing furiously into the group chat.

—

Dick and Tim have been plotting for days. Weeks, even. The Christmas gala looms, and both of them agree—solemnly, gravely—that they cannot, and will not suffer through another evening of stiff collars, fake laughs, shallow Gotham elites, and endless handshakes with people who couldn’t tell a Batarang from a breadstick.

Their plan is flawless.

Step 1: Pretend to be sick.

Step 2: Alfred would be too concerned about their well-being to force them into tuxedos.

Step 3: They’d spend the night in the Cave, eating leftover turkey sandwiches, watching old horror movies, and laughing at Gotham high society from a very safe distance.

It was foolproof.

Or so they think.

“Master Richard,” Alfred’s calm voice floats up the staircase, “I trust you have finished adjusting your tie?”

Dick lounges dramatically against his bedframe, hand pressed to his forehead. “Actually, Alfred, I think I’m coming down with something. Terrible sore throat, might be contagious.” He punctuates it with an exaggerated cough.

Tim lets out a pitiful groan beside Dick. “Me too. I think I’m dying. Sorry, gala.”

There’s silence. Long enough for Dick and Tim to share a victorious grin.

Then Alfred appears. Not flustered. Not concerned. Carrying two perfectly pressed tuxedos draped over his arm. His gaze pins them both, sharp as a scalpel.

“Fascinating,” Alfred says evenly, “that this sudden and devastating illness did not prevent either of you from devouring two entire trays of gingerbread biscuits only an hour ago.”

Tim freezes mid-cough. Dick’s jaw drops.

Alfred steps forward, laying the tuxedos on their beds with surgical precision. “You will both be dressed in ten minutes. And if you are still feeling ‘unwell,’ I would advise you to carry that performance into the ballroom. Consider it… practice.”

Dick mutters under his breath, “How does he always know?”

Without missing a beat, Alfred replies, “I raised Bruce Wayne. I know every trick in the book—and I assure you, gentlemen, you are still amateurs.”

Ten minutes later, they stand in their tuxedos, cufflinks gleaming, glaring at their reflections like prisoners of war.

Tim sighs, shoulders sagging. “We never stood a chance.”

“No,” Dick groans, straightening Tim’s tie. “We didn’t. Alfred’s the final boss.”

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor doesn’t usually glitter on New Year’s Eve. For years, it has been silent—just Bruce, the echo of footsteps on marble floors, and the memory of parents long gone. And when Dick arrived, it's just a silent celebration inside of the manor. But this year is different. This year, there’s childish laughter.

The garden is alive with light. Strings of fairy bulbs stretch across the patio and hedges, soft yellow against the winter-dark sky. Alfred has placed a long table outside, draped in white cloth and set with steaming mugs of cocoa, trays of cookies, and bowls of roasted chestnuts. A brazier crackles warmly to one side, chasing away the worst of the chill.

Tim runs across the lawn, his scarf trailing behind him like a cape, boots crunching on frost. He skids to a stop where Dick is crouched with a box of fireworks.

“Can I help set one up? Please?” Tim’s eyes are huge and full of hope.

Dick grins, tugging down his own beanie. “Sure thing, little man. But you don’t light them—that’s my job.” He winks. “Big brother privileges.”

Tim huffs, but he nods, already satisfied just to be part of the ritual. Together, they plant colorful tubes into the ground, Tim holding each carefully while Dick pats down the soil around them. Bruce watches from the steps of the manor, hands in his coat pockets, his sharp gaze softening every time Tim throws a smile over his shoulder at him.

Alfred emerges with sparklers, their golden wires clinking in a neat bundle. “I believe,” he says with a perfectly straight face, “that no New Year is complete without these. Master Timothy, Master Richard—choose wisely.”

Tim takes one reverently, eyes lighting up as Alfred strikes a match and hands him the crackling sparkler. He gasps at the fizz of light, spinning in delighted circles, tracing glowing patterns into the night air. Dick joins in, twirling his own sparkler like a sword.

“En garde, young sir!” Dick declares, lunging playfully.

Tim giggles, parries with a swoosh of light, and yells, “I’ll defeat you, evil villain!”

From the steps, Bruce actually chuckles. A low, rare sound that makes Alfred pause mid-sip of cocoa and hide a smile.

As midnight approaches, the family gathers close in the middle of the lawn. Tim’s cheeks are red from cold and excitement, his hair sticking up under his knit hat. He looks up at Bruce, tugging his glove. “Are you gonna count with us?”

Bruce glances at Alfred, who arches a brow as if to say, Don’t even think about standing on the sidelines. Finally, Bruce nods, crouching down slightly so Tim doesn’t have to crane his neck. “Yes. I’ll count with you.”

The final seconds of the year tick down. Their voices rise together:

“Ten… nine… eight…”

Tim jumps on each number, bouncing in place. Dick slings an arm around his shoulders and drags him into a one-armed hug, adding dramatic flair to every shout.

“…three… two… one—Happy New Year!”

The first firework screams into the sky. Then another. Bursts of red, gold, green, and blue scatter across the stars, reflecting in Tim’s wide eyes. He gasps, clapping his mittened hands together, nearly toppling backward in awe until Dick steadies him.

Bruce doesn’t watch the sky. He watches Tim. Watches Dick laughing, shouting over the crackle of fireworks, Alfred smiling quietly by the brazier. And Bruce feels the weight lift from his chest. This—this noisy, messy, joyous chaos—is what home should feel like.

Tim runs to Bruce, tugging his coat sleeve. “Did you see that one? It looked like a bat!”

Bruce glances up just in time to catch a firework exploding in a jagged black spread against the gold. He raises a brow. “I see it.”

Tim beams, cheeks glowing, and races back to Dick to argue about whether the next one looks more like a robin or a star.

As the fireworks fade into smoke and stars, Alfred pours everyone fresh cocoa. They stand together, shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in scarves and the lingering scent of gunpowder.

Tim leans against Bruce’s side, yawning but still buzzing with wonder. “This is the best New Year ever.”

Bruce rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “It won’t be the last.”

—

Time passes quietly, marked not by seasons but by routine. It creeps forward, measured in the scrape of wooden staffs across the Batcave mats, the sting of sparring gloves against his ribs, and the long journey to Raccoon City every few months. By the time spring edges into summer, Tim turns nine years old without much fanfare.

At the manor, training has become a fixture. Bruce insists on discipline, Dick insists on fun, and Tim—stubborn, determined Tim—meets them both halfway.

On the mat, he squares up with Dick, fists clenched, his posture too rigid. Dick grins, bouncing lightly on his toes. “Relax, Little Bird. Fighting isn’t about being a statue—it’s about flow.”

He lunges, sweeping low. Tim yelps, stumbles, but manages to hop back instead of going down. He jabs awkwardly in retaliation, which Dick blocks with ease, though his grin doesn’t fade. “See? Already better.”

From the edge of the mat, Bruce watches like a hawk. He steps forward only when Tim repeats the same mistake twice. His corrections are sharp but never cruel. “Anticipate. Don’t give your opponent the same opening. Learn from every mistake.”

Sparring with Bruce is like trying to push against a mountain. Tim always ends up flat on his back, gasping, but what matters is that he keeps getting up. Over and over again. Each time faster, sharper.

And then there’s the staff.

The first time Dick hands Tim a practice bo, it’s on a whim. “Here, kiddo. Let’s see how you handle this.”

What happens next makes both older vigilantes pause. Tim grips the weapon, tests its weight, then spins it—hesitant at first, then with surprising precision. When Dick moves in, Tim’s counter comes almost instinctively, wood cracking against wood in a rhythm that feels natural.

“Uh-oh,” Dick says, wincing as he blocks another strike. “I think he just found his thing.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, but his silence is telling. From then on, the staff becomes a permanent part of Tim’s training.

And yet, every three or so months, like clockwork, the Drakes reappear.

Jack and Janet sweep back into the manor with fake smiles and blank voices, as though their absence hasn’t been months long. They whisk Tim off to Raccoon City, nevermind Bruce’s barely concealed fury. And every time, after only a handful of days, they vanish again. Always without warning, always without care, leaving their son behind in a city that is not his home.

Tim doesn’t waste time being surprised anymore. Instead, he finds himself drifting back to the police station, where Marvin is quick to greet him with equal parts exasperation and affection. “You again, huh? Kid, your parents—” Marvin bites back the rest, muttering under his breath about irresponsible rich folks as he pulls a chair up for Tim at his desk.

The S.T.A.R.S. office becomes Tim’s second nest. Chris and Barry grin the moment they see him, clapping him on the shoulder like a little brother. “Up for the range again?” Barry asks one afternoon, already unlocking the armory. Tim’s small hands aren’t quite steady enough for the heavier pieces, but he listens intently as they teach him how to load, aim, and clean each weapon (Of course, he doesn't tell this to Bruce. The man is against all types of guns. It'll just be his little secret). Chris insists on safety first, always patient, while Barry tells exaggerated stories of firefights that make Tim’s eyes go wide.

“Keep your arms steady,” Chris coaches, crouched behind him as Tim aims at the paper target. His small hands tremble but his eyes stay locked, and when the shot lands closer to the bullseye than expected, Chris whistles. “Not bad, kid.”

Barry laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “At this rate, you’ll be teaching us.”

When Tim returns from the range, Marvin is waiting, arms crossed, radiating disapproval. “He’s nine. Nine. Guns are not toys.”

Tim lifts his chin, steady in his reasoning. “I want to know how. I need to know how.”

Marvin mutters darkly but lets it go.

And then there’s Sherry.

Every visit, she’s waiting with a grin, dragging him into another whirlwind of games and conspiracies. But under their laughter lies a mission. They know William Birkin is hiding something—his “life’s work.” They sneak through drawers, whisper outside locked doors, jot down overheard words in messy notebooks. But it’s never enough. Just scraps.

The only thing they’re sure of is the blood. William insists on regular tests, needles pricking their arms over and over again. His explanations vary—health checks, routine data, important research—but Tim’s instincts scream that it’s wrong. He files the details away, waiting for a pattern to emerge.

At night, when they sit cross-legged on Sherry’s bedroom floor, whispering over stolen cookies, the truth hangs heavy between them.

“One day, I’ll find out what he’s doing,” Sherry says fiercely, hugging her knees.

Tim doesn’t hesitate. “We will. Even if it takes years.”

—

The Birkin garden is quiet again, sunlight filtering through the trimmed hedges and scattering dappled gold across the patch of grass where Sherry and Tim have plopped themselves. It’s the kind of lazy afternoon where the air smells faintly of cut grass and the distant tang of chemicals from the lab, the kind of afternoon where two kids can sit with their backs against the fence and pretend they don’t feel the shadow of the adults looming over their lives.

Sherry pulls at a blade of grass until it snaps in her fingers, then turns her sharp blue eyes toward her best friend. “Hey, Tim?”

Tim doesn’t look up. He’s fiddling with his laptop again, screen glowing faintly in the shade, little hands flying over the keys with the practiced rhythm of someone who makes complicated code look like a piano exercise.

Sherry hesitates—then blurts, “Did you already hack Umbrella’s database?”

Tim freezes mid-keystroke. Slowly, he turns his head toward her, expression caught between disbelief and disgruntlement. “Sherry,” he says, voice indignant, “of course I already hacked Umbrella’s database. What kind of question is that?”

She bites back a grin at his tone. Only Tim could sound like an offended eighty-year-old professor while still looking like the nine-year-old who sometimes forgets to tie his shoelaces.

“Well?” she presses. “Did you find anything?”

Tim exhales through his nose, almost sulky. “Nothing. Not a single thing about whatever your dad’s working on. Either he’s not logging it, or he’s deliberately keeping it off the grid.” His little fingers tap the laptop’s casing in frustration. “Umbrella’s system is huge—files on weapons, viruses, and projects that got canned. But no mention of him. It’s like he doesn’t exist on their servers even though he’s one of the top dogs at the corporation.”

Sherry frowns, chewing on her lip. “But that doesn’t make sense. He’s always working. There has to be something.”

“There probably is,” Tim admits grudgingly. “But not here. If your dad keeps digital records, they won’t be in Umbrella’s database. He’s too paranoid for that. He’d keep them close.” Tim tilts his head, already working through the possibilities out loud, like he can’t help it. “Most likely a personal laptop encrypted to high heavens with levels of security that would make the secret service’s teeth itch. Or…” His voice drops, grim. “…maybe he’s sticking to paper. Paper’s harder to hack.”

The two of them sit with that for a moment. The cicadas hum in the background.

Finally, Sherry sighs and flops back onto the grass, staring at the sky. “Figures. My dad’s old-fashioned enough to still carry a pager.”

Tim closes his laptop with a little snap, lips pressed thin. “If he keeps it on paper, I’ll find it. If it’s digital, I’ll crack it. Either way, we’ll get something eventually.” His voice hardens, the determination there even though he’s still just a kid. “Secrets don’t stay buried forever.”

Sherry turns her head toward him, studying his serious little face. Then she smiles—because Tim might be indignant and smug and a tiny bit ridiculous, but he’s hers. Her partner in crime. Her best friend.

“You’re right,” she says softly. “They don’t.”

—

The air smells faintly of metal and oil, the low hum of the Batcomputer filling the silence. The mats are rolled out in the center of the floor, stark against the stone, and two figures stand opposite each other—one a towering shadow, the other a boy gripping a practice bo-staff until his knuckles are white.

Bruce rests his own staff against his shoulder, expression unreadable. “Begin.”

Tim surges forward before nerves can choke him. His first strike is a clean downward arc, straight for Bruce’s head. It’s clumsy but full of determination. Bruce doesn’t even blink—he deflects with a sharp twist of his wrist, redirecting the force like swatting away a branch.

“Too obvious.”

Tim clenches his teeth. He pivots, trying a jab to the ribs, then a sweep to the ankles. Both are turned aside effortlessly, the staff in Bruce’s hands moving like an extension of his body. Every failed attempt tightens the knot of frustration in Tim’s chest, but he refuses to stop.

From the stairs, Dick lounges with a grin, hands cupped around his mouth. “C’mon, Little Bird, he’s not that scary! Think!”

Tim narrows his eyes, remembering Dick’s words during training: flow, don’t freeze. He breathes, loosens his grip just a little, lets the staff spin across his palms before lunging again. This time, he feints left, then strikes hard to the right.

The crack of wood-on-wood echoes through the cave. For the first time, Bruce actually braces against the blow. His eyes narrow, just a fraction.

“Better.”

Tim’s heart leaps at that single word, but there’s no time to bask. Bruce presses the offensive, his staff coming down in quick, precise arcs. Tim scrambles, blocking one, ducking another, his arms shaking from the effort. He isn’t winning—far from it—but he’s keeping up.

He pivots sharply, spinning his staff low across the mat. Bruce hops back to avoid the sweep, but that moment of retreat emboldens Tim. He charges, teeth gritted, and jabs at Bruce’s torso with all the strength in his small frame.

Bruce twists away, but the tip of Tim’s staff grazes his side. A near-hit.

“HE ALMOST GOT YOU!” Dick crows, practically falling off the stairs in glee. “Did everybody see that? History in the making!”

Tim pants, sweat dripping into his eyes, but a fierce smile breaks across his face. His arms ache, his legs burn, yet he refuses to stop. Strike after strike, his instincts sharpen. He begins to anticipate Bruce’s movements—not perfectly, not enough to outmatch him, but enough to keep Bruce on his toes.

Finally, Bruce ends it. A heavy downward strike pushes against Tim’s staff until his grip falters. The wood slips from his sweaty hands and clatters against the mat. Tim collapses back, chest heaving, the fight burned out of his limbs.

But Bruce doesn’t deliver the final blow. He lowers his staff, his gaze steady.

“You’re learning,” Bruce says, voice quiet but firm. “Faster than I expected.”

Tim stares up at him, flushed and grinning despite the exhaustion. “Almost got you.”

Bruce inclines his head, the faintest hint of something—approval, pride—settling in his eyes. “Almost.”

From the stairs, Dick pumps his fists. “Told you he’s a natural! Give him a year, B, he’ll be handing you your cape.”

Tim laughs weakly, letting himself flop back against the mat, staff beside him. His body aches, but inside, something glows—something fierce, unshakable.

—

The mats are rolled out again, but this time the cavern feels lighter, less foreboding. No clashing staffs, no thunderous voice instructing him to focus—just the sound of water dripping in the distance and Dick Grayson standing barefoot on the edge of the mats, arms crossed, grinning like he’s about to start trouble.

“Alright, Little Bird,” Dick says, bouncing once on the balls of his feet. “You’ve got brains and you’ve got a good right hook, but there’s one thing you’re missing.”

Tim adjusts the hem of his training shirt, already skeptical. “What?”

“Style.” Dick backflips—effortless, smooth, like he’s been doing it since he learned to walk. He lands in a bow with a flourish. “Being Robin isn’t just about fighting bad guys. You’ve gotta move like you own the night.”

Tim raises a brow, unimpressed but secretly awestruck. “I don’t think style’s in the handbook.”

“Kiddo, I wrote the handbook,” Dick says, patting him on the shoulder. “And lesson one is acrobatics. Come on.”

They start simple. Forward rolls, cartwheels, easy warm-ups that Dick makes look like ballet. Tim tries to copy, tumbling across the mat in awkward bursts of limbs. His rolls aren’t straight, his cartwheels look more like collapsing furniture, and after his third failed attempt, he stays lying on the mat, groaning.

“This is impossible.”

“Nope,” Dick says, crouching down to flick Tim’s forehead. “You’re just overthinking it. Stop trying to calculate the perfect angle of your elbow or whatever. Feel it. Trust your body.”

Tim glares at him but pushes himself up. He tries again. This time, he doesn’t count the steps in his head or measure the space with his eyes—he just throws himself into the cartwheel. It’s wobbly, but he lands on his feet.

“HA!” Dick claps loudly. “See? You did it! That’s my boy!”

Tim flushes with pride, biting down a smile. “It was crooked.”

“Crooked’s fine. You’ll get straighter with practice. I wasn’t perfect either, y’know.”

Tim gives him a flat look. “You grew up in the circus. That doesn’t count.”

The session builds from there. Dick teaches him how to spring from a crouch into a somersault, how to use momentum instead of fighting against it, and how to keep his center of gravity sharp and low. Tim stumbles, trips, and even faceplants once, but every time Dick is there with a hand to pull him back up.

At one point, Dick demonstrates a clean back handspring, landing in a steady crouch. “Your turn.”

Tim stares at him, horrified. “I’ll break my neck.”

“You won’t. I’ve got you.” Dick moves behind him, hands at the ready. “I promise, Timmy. I won’t let you fall.”

Tim hesitates. His stomach knots. But Dick’s voice is steady, warm, and unshakable. He bends his knees, throws himself back, and—Tim’s eyes squeeze shut—lands in a clumsy arch with Dick catching most of his weight.

When he opens his eyes, he’s upright, breathless, alive.

“See?” Dick grins, clapping his back. “Flying feels good, huh?”

Tim can’t help it. He grins too. “Maybe a little.”

They run through it again, and again, each time with less support until Tim manages his first unassisted handspring. He lands crooked, falling onto his side, but the exhilaration in his chest outweighs the ache in his arm.

By the end, Tim is dripping sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, but he’s laughing—really laughing, chest-deep and unguarded. Dick ruffles his hair with a proud, brotherly grin.

“You’ve got the brains of a detective and the guts of a fighter,” Dick says, “but this—this is where you shine.”

Tim hugs his bo-staff close to him, the symbol of all his training so far. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

From the upper level of the cave, Bruce watches silently, arms folded, face unreadable. But when Tim flips again—sloppy but determined—there’s the faintest tug of pride at the corner of his mouth.

—

The cave echoes tonight with the sharp thwip of a grappling line, followed by the dull clang of it hitting stone.

Tim stands with his arms locked stiff, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. The small training version of the grapple gun is almost as big as his forearm, the handle wobbling in his too-small grip.

“Adjust your wrist,” Bruce says from behind him, voice low, steady. “Not your whole arm.”

“I am adjusting my wrist,” Tim mutters through gritted teeth, tugging the line back in. The hook bounces uselessly off the target plate again.

“Looks like you’re trying to swat a fly,” Dick chimes in, leaning against the wall, arms folded. His grin is infuriating. “Want me to show you how it’s done?”

Tim scowls. “No.”

Bruce steps back into the shadows, letting the brothers have their rhythm. This is Tim’s lesson, after all.

Tim breathes out, steadies his stance the way Bruce taught him, and fires. Thwip! This time, the line hooks onto the edge of the training platform. His eyes go wide.

“It worked!”

“Don’t just stand there gawking!” Dick laughs, jogging up beside him. “Climb, baby bird! Climb!”

Tim swallows hard, holsters the grapple, and grips the rope. His arms tremble as he hauls himself upward, sneakers scraping against the stone wall. He gets about halfway up before his foot slips, and—

“Whoa!”

He dangles mid-air, the line swinging in wide arcs.

Dick howls with laughter. “Congratulations, you’ve invented the human pendulum!”

Tim glares at him, face red from both effort and embarrassment. “Help. Me.”

Bruce silently taps his wrist computer, retracting the line before Tim can fall. The boy lands in a heap at Dick’s feet, panting but unhurt.

Dick crouches, hands on his knees, still chuckling. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it. Took me months to stop face-planting.”

“You still face-plant,” Tim shoots back, brushing dirt off his shirt.

“Ohhh, he’s spicy now,” Dick says, eyes twinkling. “I like it.”

They reset. Tim practices again, and again. Sometimes the hook connects, sometimes it bounces off. Sometimes he gets halfway up before slipping, other times he makes it all the way and punches the air in triumph. Each failure stings, but each success lights him up.

Bruce doesn’t praise—he simply watches, noting every adjustment, every flicker of stubborn determination. But Dick claps and cheers like a one-man stadium, no matter how small the victory.

By the end, Tim’s hands are raw, his shirt damp with sweat, but his grin is unstoppable.

He’s just about to fire again when the training was interrupted by a surprise visitor.

“Is this what passes for playtime these days?”

“Uncle Clark!” Tim’s voice cracks with delight.

A red cape flutters down from the high ledges, and Superman lands with all the grace in the world. He’s still in his suit, but the smile softening his face is pure Kent.

Tim barrels toward him, skidding a little on the mat, and throws himself at him. Clark laughs and catches him easily, lifting him up like he weighs nothing.

“You’ve grown,” Clark teases, adjusting his glasses even though they’re completely unnecessary right now.

“I’m training!” Tim announces proudly, pointing toward the grapple gun still clutched in his hand. “Look! I can almost swing now!”

Dick jogs up, shaking his head with mock despair. “By ‘almost,’ he means he turned himself into a human wrecking ball. I’ll send you the video footage later.”

“Dick!” Tim groans, covering his face.

Bruce emerges from the shadows at last, expression unreadable but posture softening. “Clark.”

“Bruce.” Clark inclines his head in polite greeting, then glances back at Tim. “He looks happy.”

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. He just watches as Tim animatedly reenacts his best grapple attempt with sound effects, cape swishing around his legs as he spins.

Dick leans close to Clark, stage whispering. “Between you and me? He’s a natural. Stubborn as Bruce, though.”

Clark smiles faintly, the kind of smile that holds both pride and quiet sadness. “Stubborn’s good. Means he’ll hold on.”

—

The RPD gym smells faintly of sweat, rubber mats, and cheap coffee from the machine down the hall. Jill kneels in the center of the training space, tying her hair back with brisk efficiency. In her hand, she twirls something that catches Tim’s sharp eyes immediately: a rubber training knife, the handle wrapped in black tape.

Tim bounces on the balls of his feet, almost vibrating. “We’re doing knife fighting? Really?”

“You’re ten, so you’re old enough now,” Jill says, giving him that sly smile she saves just for him—the one that says you’re one of us, not just the kid tagging along. “Besides, you’ve got good instincts. About time we sharpen them. Figuratively.”

“Rubber knives,” Barry’s voice rumbles from the corner like a warning bell. He’s standing with his arms crossed, broad shoulders blocking half the doorway. “Tell me you’re using rubber knives, Valentine.”

Jill rolls her eyes. “Relax, Barry. I’m not about to hand him a KA-BAR. We’re not maniacs.” She tosses Tim the second rubber blade, and he catches it in both hands like it’s holy. “See? Soft, safe. At worst, he bruises.”

“At worst, he learns habits you can’t unteach.” Barry mutters, though his eyes soften as he watches Tim beam up at Jill. “Kid’s still tiny. That knife looks bigger than his arm.”

“Tiny doesn’t mean helpless,” Jill fires back smoothly, then turns her attention to Tim. She crouches to his level, her eyes sharp and kind all at once. “Rule number one: never treat this like a toy. Even if it’s rubber today, it’s not a game. Got it?”

Tim nods hard. “Got it.”

“Good.” She rises in one smooth motion and gestures for him to stand opposite her. “Show me how you’d hold it.”

Tim grips the knife in his fist like he’s seen in movies. Jill sighs and steps forward, gently correcting his hand.

“No, no, that’ll get your wrist broken. Thumb here, blade angled this way. Fighting with a knife is about control and survival, not waving it like a sword.” She demonstrates, her own blade flowing from low guard to high in a seamless arc. “See? Economy of motion.”

Tim mirrors her, clumsy but determined.

“Better,” Jill says. “Now try to tag me.”

He blinks. “Tag you?”

“Yeah. Simple. Get your knife to touch me. Doesn’t matter how.” She steps into stance, knees bent, blade poised. “Come on, rookie. Show me what you’ve got.”

Tim lunges. Jill sidesteps effortlessly, giving him a light tap on the ribs with her knife.

“Dead.”

He spins, tries again. Another dodge, another gentle smack to his arm.

“Dead again.”

Barry chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.”

But Tim doesn’t stop. He keeps charging, feinting, adjusting. Every time Jill tags him, he learns—angling his shoulders narrower, keeping his blade tighter to his body, remembering her corrections. Sweat prickles his forehead. His sneakers squeak on the mats.

Finally, he surprises her—dropping low, sweeping under her arm, and jabbing the rubber knife against her hip.

Jill pauses. Raises a brow. Then laughs, delighted. “There it is! Nice move, Tim.”

He’s grinning so hard his face hurts. “Got you.”

“You got me,” Jill agrees, tapping his blade with hers in a mock salute. Then, without warning, she sweeps his ankle and knocks him flat on his back.

Tim wheezes. “Hey!”

“And then I got you,” she says sweetly, offering him a hand up.

Barry groans. “You’re gonna get me killed by Wayne one of these days, Valentine.”

Jill smirks. “Relax, Barry. He’s learning. Better he picks this up here than out there when it counts.”

Tim pushes himself up, clutching the knife again, eyes blazing with stubborn fire. “Again. I can do better.”

That, right there, makes Jill’s chest ache—the sheer determination of a ten-year-old who refuses to stay down. She nods once, firmly.

“Again.”

And so they go at it. Again, and again, until Tim’s shirt clings with sweat and his arms tremble from holding the knife steady. Jill never takes it easy on him, but she never discourages him either. Every strike he lands is celebrated. Every failure becomes a lesson.

By the time they finally call it, Tim is sprawled on the mat, laughing breathlessly. Jill sits cross-legged beside him, handing over her water bottle.

“You’re a natural,” she says softly. “Tiny and a gremlin, sure. But a natural.”

Barry mutters something about child soldiers, but his eyes—warm and fond—betray him as he looks at Tim, who beams up at Jill like she just made his whole year.

—

The RPD is quiet tonight. Most of S.T.A.R.S. is either off-shift or scattered around the city, the gym locked up after Jill’s “training session.” Marvin sits at his desk in the main hall, the soft scratch of his pen on paperwork the only sound besides the creak of the old building.

He doesn’t notice Tim until the boy plops down in the chair opposite him, grinning like a cat that swallowed a canary.

Marvin looks up slowly. He knows that grin. It’s the grin of a child who has done something he absolutely shouldn’t have. “What did you do.”

Tim doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he fishes something from his backpack and lays it proudly on Marvin’s desk. A rubber training knife, still warm from his hands.

Marvin stares at it. Then stares at Tim. “No.”

“Yes,” Tim chirps. His whole body buzzes with excitement, legs swinging, eyes shining. “Jill taught me knife fighting today! Look!”

Before Marvin can stop him, Tim hops off the chair and demonstrates—stance low, blade angled just so, little steps across the tiled floor. His movements are sloppy, sure, but there’s intent behind them. He lunges, pivots, even tries that low sweep Jill praised him for.

“See?!” He whirls toward Marvin, chest heaving with pride. “I got her once! She said I was a natural!”

Marvin pinches the bridge of his nose. He has been shot, stabbed, nearly blown up. None of that compares to the heart attack this child is about to give him.

“She did what?” His voice comes out flat, dangerously calm.

“Taught me,” Tim says brightly. He stabs the air, grins wider. “It was awesome. I mean, Barry kept complaining, but Jill says better I learn now, you know, before—”

“Stop.” Marvin raises a hand, and Tim freezes mid-swing. The rubber knife wobbles. “You do not get to finish that sentence.”

Tim blinks. “…Before what?”

“Before nothing,” Marvin growls. He pushes back from his desk, gets up, and strides over. “Hand me the knife.”

Tim clutches it tighter. “But—”

“Now, Timothy.”

Tim hesitates, lips pursing in a pout, but finally holds it out. Marvin takes it gently, sets it on the desk, and then crouches so he’s eye-level with the boy.

“You listen to me. You don’t need to know how to fight with knives. You don’t need to know how to fight at all. You’re a kid. You should be playing baseball, not… not this.” His voice cracks slightly, the mask slipping, because he sees too much of the world’s cruelty in this child’s determination.

Tim crosses his arms, defiant even with his cheeks flushed. “But if I don’t learn, how am I supposed to keep up? What if something happens, and I can’t—”

Marvin cuts him off, softer now. “That’s not your job, Tim. That’s ours. That’s mine. Your job is to stay safe.”

For a long moment, they just look at each other. Tim’s stubbornness versus Marvin’s weary, protective anger. Finally, Marvin sighs.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

Tim shakes his head, tiny but resolute.

“Of course not,” Marvin mutters. He rubs a hand down his face, then points at the boy. “Fine. But if you’re going to do this—if Jill’s already got her claws in—you’re gonna learn properly. And safely.”

Tim’s eyes light up like Christmas. “So you’ll teach me?”

Marvin scowls. “No. I’ll correct you. There’s a difference.”

Still, he gestures for Tim to pick up the knife again. The boy practically skips over, snatching it up and bouncing into stance. Marvin shakes his head, then adjusts Tim’s footing with a tap of his boot.

“Too wide. You’ll topple. Like this.” He nudges Tim’s arm into place, straightens his spine. “You want stability. Balance. Always balance.”

They spend the next half hour like that—Marvin correcting, Tim demonstrating, over and over. Marvin doesn’t let him spar, doesn’t let him get carried away. It’s all about posture, grip, awareness. The boring fundamentals.

By the end, Tim’s pouting again, but Marvin doesn’t care.

“You’ll thank me later,” Marvin says, plucking the knife from his hands. “Now, go wash up. And for God’s sake, don’t tell your dad or brother I let you keep practicing.”

Tim salutes him with a grin. “Yes, sir.”

As the boy trots off, Marvin sinks back into his chair, staring at the rubber knife. His chest aches with the weight of it all. He wants to protect Tim from this world, shield him from every monster and every shadow. But he also knows—deep down—that the kid is already too far in to turn back. Especially considering the fact that the kid lives in Gotham.

He exhales, heavy, and mutters to the empty room, “Lord help us all.”

—

Morning comes to the RPD in a rush of coffee, paperwork, and laughter echoing out of the S.T.A.R.S. office. Jill is perched on the edge of a desk, tying her hair back, while Barry leans against the wall with his thermos. Chris is fiddling with a radio that keeps crackling, Rebecca is hunched over medical files, and Marvin is actually there to have Chris sign some papers about his stakeout last night.

That peace doesn’t last.

The door swings open, and in marches Tim—bright-eyed, practically glowing with smug satisfaction. He doesn’t even knock. He goes straight for Jill and blurts, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Guess what, Jill? Marvin trained me last night.”

The office explodes.

Barry nearly spits coffee all over the floor. Chris whips around with a grin so wide it looks painful. Rebecca’s jaw drops. And Jill—oh, Jill lights up like someone just handed her the crown jewels.

“What was that?” Jill says sweetly, tilting her head. “Marvin trained you?”

Marvin freezes in his chair. Slowly, he looks up from his papers, the expression on his face the exact picture of a man who has lost control of his own life. “I did not.”

“Yes, you did!” Tim crows, bouncing on his heels. “You showed me how to fix my stance, and how to hold the knife properly, and—”

“Correction!” Marvin interrupts sharply, standing up so fast his chair screeches back. “I corrected you. There’s a difference. I didn’t teach him anything he didn’t already know.”

“Uh-huh,” Chris drawls, arms crossed, smirking like he just caught Marvin sneaking candy. “That’s not what it sounds like, pal.”

“Exactly,” Jill adds, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Sounds like you’re on board now. Welcome to the club.”

“I am not in any club,” Marvin snaps, jabbing a finger toward her. “You had no business teaching him in the first place!”

“Oh, don’t be such a mother hen,” Jill teases, kicking her legs idly. “The kid’s good. Better than most rookies.”

Barry chuckles low in his chest, shaking his head. “So this is how it starts, huh? One knife lesson, and suddenly Marvin’s eating his own words.”

Rebecca, still shocked but quietly amused, pipes up. “You really did train him, didn’t you?”

“I—” Marvin stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a groan that sounds like it comes from his soul. “I hate all of you.”

Meanwhile, Tim beams, practically preening. He tugs at Jill’s sleeve like he’s tattling in reverse. “He even said balance is everything! Just like you did!”

“Ohhh, so he did listen,” Jill says, shooting Marvin a look of triumph.

That earns her a glare sharp enough to kill.

Chris slings an arm around Marvin’s shoulders before the man can storm out. “Face it, buddy. The kid’s yours now too.”

Marvin shrugs him off, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “damn kid’s gonna be the death of me,” but the red at his ears betrays him.

—

The clock on the RPD’s wall ticks past three in the afternoon, its steady rhythm the only sound competing with the endless scratching of pens, the clacking of typewriters, and the occasional groan from a tired officer.

The S.T.A.R.S. office is packed today. Bravo Team is back from a patrol, Alpha is grounded with paperwork, and somehow, in the middle of all this, Tim Drake is perched at one of the desks with his little laptop.

This tiny tot of a kid, feet not even touching the floor, face lit up by the glow of the screen, typing away with a level of concentration that would put a roomful of detectives to shame.

At first, no one pays him much attention. They’re used to him by now. He comes and goes like a resident cat—sometimes with Sherry, sometimes alone, always armed with that sharp little smile of his. Marvin checked him in at the front desk this morning with a long-suffering sigh and an even longer lecture about not distracting the officers. Tim promised, cross his heart, that he’d keep out of trouble.

That was eight hours ago.

Now, Rebecca, hunched over medical files and cross-eyed from staring at too many reports, pushes her chair back and stretches. “I swear, if I read the words blood sample analysis one more time, I’m going to throw myself out the window.”

Forest Speyer chuckles from across the room, polishing his rifle. “If you’re going to do it, aim for the bushes. Less paperwork for us.”

“Not funny,” Rebecca mutters, rubbing her temples.

Her gaze drifts across the room—and lands on Tim. Still at the laptop. Still typing. Still looking like he’s solving the mysteries of the universe while the rest of them are drowning in bureaucracy.

Curiosity gets the better of her. She slides out of her chair and pads over. “Hey, Tim. What’ve you been up to all day? You haven’t moved.”

Without looking up, Tim shrugs. “Just hacking the Pentagon.”

Rebecca blinks. “…What?”

He glances at her briefly, as casual as if he’d just said doing my math homework. “The Pentagon. You know. U.S. Department of Defense.” Then he goes right back to typing, fingers flying.

Rebecca stares at the screen, utterly lost. All she sees is a black window with endless strings of green and white text flashing by, numbers scrolling, little symbols that mean absolutely nothing to her medical brain. It looks like the Matrix had a baby with a calculator.

She squints. “…What is this? Did you break your computer?”

“Nope.” Tim’s voice is maddeningly calm. “That’s a mainframe access port. If I spoof the IP long enough, I’ll—oh, never mind, you don’t care about that.”

Rebecca opens and closes her mouth, then turns to the room at large and blurts, “He says he’s hacking the Pentagon!”

The office screeches to a halt.

Chris looks up from his paperwork, pen frozen in mid-sentence. Jill’s head snaps up, eyes wide. Barry almost drops his thermos. Richard Aiken slowly lowers his cards from the poker table. Enrico Marini, captain of Bravo Team, mutters a curse under his breath. Even Brad Vickers, lounging in a corner with his Game Boy, pauses and gawks.

Marvin, who just walked in carrying a file, stops dead. “…He’s what?”

Tim, still typing, repeats cheerfully, “Hacking the Pentagon.”

The room explodes.

“Kid!” Barry bellows, nearly knocking his chair over as he lumbers to his feet. “You can’t just—just—you can’t do that!”

“Yes I can,” Tim says without missing a beat. “I’m doing it right now.”

Chris strides over, peering at the screen like maybe if he stares hard enough, he’ll suddenly understand computers. “Wait—wait, is he serious? Is this real?”

“Of course it’s real,” Jill mutters, already dragging a hand down her face. “Look at him. That's a tiny, evil genius in the making.”

“Timothy,” Marvin says in that slow, deliberate dad voice of his, “I need you to tell me you’re not actually committing cybercrimes in my precinct.”

“I’m not committing,” Tim corrects, eyes still on the screen. “I’m practicing.”

Rebecca throws her arms in the air. “That’s worse!”

Enrico presses his fingers to his temples. “We’re all going to prison.”

Brad, of course, starts laughing. “Oh my god. Oh my god. The kid’s ten and he’s out here declaring cyberwar.”

“Brad, shut up!” Jill snaps.

Richard, trying to be the voice of reason, edges closer. “Tim, buddy, maybe we should close the laptop before the FBI shows up at our door?”

Tim finally pauses, glances up at all of them, and blinks innocently. “Relax. I’m not dumb enough to finish the hack. I just want to see if I can get in.”

“That’s the same thing!” Barry booms, throwing his hands up.

Chris actually looks impressed. “Okay, but… can you really do it?”

“Chris!” Rebecca shrieks. “Don’t encourage him!”

Jill groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I knew letting him hang around here was a mistake. He’s already smarter than half the city, and now he’s adding felonies to his hobby list.”

Tim just smirks, returning to his keyboard. “You guys worry too much.”

“Worry too much?” Marvin’s voice cracks as his volume rises. “You’re ten years old, Timothy! Ten! And you’re sitting here casually telling federal agents you’re hacking the Pentagon in broad daylight!”

“Technically,” Tim corrects again, “you’re local law enforcement, not federal.”

A silence follows that statement. A long, heavy silence.

Barry looks like he’s about to have a stroke. Jill looks like she wants to commit homicide. Chris bites back a laugh, and Rebecca just stares at Tim like he’s sprouted horns.

And in the middle of all of it, Tim calmly types away, humming under his breath like the world’s youngest supervillain.

—

The garden behind the Birkin house is quiet in the late afternoon. Autumn light filters through thinning trees, turning the grass gold. Sherry lies on her stomach on the back steps, chin propped on her palms, watching Tim as he fidgets with his laptop.

She already knows what he’s working on—he’s been rambling about the goddess statue puzzle for years now, the three medallions that supposedly unlock something deep inside the RPD. But she doesn’t mind listening again. If anything, she kind of likes watching how his brain sparks whenever he talks about it.

“So far,” Tim says, brows furrowed in concentration, “I think I’ve cracked part of the unicorn medallion sequence. The lion’s medallion was just the start. The unicorn one’s trickier.”

Sherry perks up, doodle pencil tapping against her notebook. “So you’re closer?”

Tim nods, lips quirking into a proud smile. “Closer. If I get it right, the statue should release the second medallion. Then it’s just one more.”

Sherry gasps, delighted. “Then we can see what it opens!”

“Exactly.” He grins, leaning in conspiratorially. “The RPD looks normal, but there’s something underneath it. A whole secret layer. Those medallions are keys, Sherry.”

Before she can reply, the sharp slam of a car door cuts through the quiet. Both kids freeze.

Tim snaps his laptop shut on instinct. Sherry clutches at his sleeve. Through the chain-link gaps in the side fence, they spot a tall man striding toward the front door of the house. Blond hair gleams pale under the fading sun, sharp against the black of his trench coat. His presence is cold, heavy.

Albert Wesker.

Sherry whispers, “What’s he doing here?”

Tim’s heart kicks up, but his voice is steady. “We can find out.” He squeezes her hand and pulls her toward the back door.

They slip inside, sneakers whispering against polished tile. The kitchen smells faintly of chemicals and stale coffee. From the front parlor, the low murmur of voices drifts toward them.

“Progress?” Wesker’s tone is calm, but with an edge that cuts.

Birkin’s reply is sharp, brittle. “It’s proceeding. Adjustments take time—you know that.”

Leather creaks as Wesker folds his arms. “Umbrella is not patient. They expect results. This project has been promised too long already.”

Tim presses his back to the wall, listening hard. Sherry’s grip on his sleeve is iron tight.

Birkin bristles, his voice rising. “No one else can do what I’ve done. No one. I’m closer than ever. But it has to be perfect.”

A pause. Then Wesker speaks again, low and deliberate: “Just make sure it won’t… spread. We cannot afford an incident. As long as you’re certain this will not cause an outbreak.”

The word hangs in the air like smoke. Outbreak.

Sherry stiffens beside him. Tim’s mind races, stringing the pieces together, and he doesn’t like where they lead.

Sherry tugs at his arm. Tim nods, and together they retreat, slipping back out the way they came, breathless and silent.

Only once they’re outside in the cool garden air again does Sherry exhale. “Tim… that sounded bad.”

“Yeah.” Tim hugs his laptop to his chest, eyes narrowed. “Really bad.”

—

The Batcave breathes tonight, alive with a quiet hum that only grows as the computers boot into full activity. Dozens of monitors line the wall, glowing like watchful eyes in the dark, casting pale blue light across steel, stone, and shadows.

Tim sits in the massive chair at the Batcomputer. The seat is too big for him, his feet dangling inches above the floor, but he sits straight, his posture serious, headset snug over his ears. His hands hover over the keyboard with confidence that belies his ten years. He’s been here before, watching, learning, piecing things together. But tonight—tonight he’s not just watching. He’s in.

Static crackles in his headset.

“Comms check.” Bruce’s voice comes low and steady, the kind of voice that makes grown men freeze in their tracks.

“Loud and clear,” Tim replies, professional, crisp.

Another channel opens with a faint laugh. “Check, check. How’s mission control, Little Bird?” Dick’s voice is lighter, mischievous, perched somewhere high above Gotham with the night wind at his back.

Tim can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Ready.”

The night begins.

The cave fills with the soft chatter of scanners, overlapping streams of police reports, traffic updates, and surveillance feeds. The computer’s algorithms flash red markers over the map of Gotham, prioritizing incidents by severity and location.

Tim filters quickly. His mind sifts through the noise, discarding what’s irrelevant, focusing on what matters.

“First priority: robbery in progress, Burnley district,” he reports. His fingers type rapidly, pulling up a live street cam. “Two suspects, armed. Robin, you’re closest. They’re heading east on Hartfield—take the rooftops, and you’ll cut them off.”

“Copy that,” Dick answers, the sound of wind rushing through his comm.

“And me?” Bruce asks.

Tim doesn’t even hesitate. “Suspicious gathering in The Bowery. Intel says possible Black Mask crew. It’s bigger than the Burnley hit—better suited for you.”

There’s a pause—barely a heartbeat—but Tim feels it. A moment of consideration. Then: “Acknowledged.”

Tim exhales softly, fingers poised. He doesn’t notice that his small shoulders are tense, or that his heart is beating fast. What he notices are the feeds: Dick closing distance, Bruce moving into position.

Minutes pass. The police chatter confirms the robbery suspects. Tim’s gaze flicks to their route, to the rooftops Dick is already moving across. He can almost see the way his plan will work—like setting a rook on the chessboard and watching the opponent walk into the trap.

And then—“Nice call, Little Bird,” Dick’s voice rings out, followed by the unmistakable noise of a fight. A grunt, a thud, then laughter. “You weren’t kidding. They walked right into me.”

Tim can’t help it. He grins. “Told you.”

“Suspects restrained. Calling it in. Next?”

Tim’s eyes are already there. “Batman, you’ve got ten hostiles, armed. They’re watching the street, but the north alley is clear. You can cut through it and gain higher ground. If you press them into the alley, you’ll funnel them into a choke point.”

For a few moments, only the sounds of combat filter through: the heavy crack of fist against flesh, the dull scrape of boots on pavement. Tim sits straighter, breath tight, his gaze locked on Bruce’s biometrics pulsing green on his screen.

“…Good thinking,” Bruce’s voice rumbles at last, calm even in the middle of a fight.

Tim exhales, relief warming his chest. “Three left, right?”

“Yes.”

“They’re moving east. Take the back stairwell now—you’ll intercept before they can escape.”

Another silence. Then the line clears with Bruce’s simple declaration: “All hostiles subdued. Area secure.”

Tim beams. He doesn’t say it aloud, but he doesn’t have to. The silence after is heavy with unspoken respect.

The night rolls forward. Gotham never sleeps, and neither do its shadows. Tim keeps up, guiding Dick toward high-speed chases and rooftops where agility is key, while sending Bruce into choke points and structured takedowns. Every assignment is calculated, every direction deliberate. It’s a puzzle, and Tim has always been good at puzzles.

When a car chase breaks out in Bristol, Tim switches his map overlay, eyes shining with focus. “Robin, the car’s heading north. If you swing down to 6th Avenue, you’ll cut them off. But be careful—the driver’s reckless. You’ll need to time it.”

“On my way,” Dick says, laughing with that thrill in his tone. Seconds later, his voice bursts through again. “Got ‘em. You’re good, kid.”

Another feed pulls Tim’s attention: Bruce, tracking a smuggling ring near the Tricorner docks. Tim’s voice sharpens with urgency. “Thermal scan shows six hostiles inside, two guarding the main entrance. Back entrance is unguarded—if you enter there, you’ll divide them before they can regroup.”

There’s no hesitation this time. Just a quiet, “Copy,” before Bruce moves in.

The operation ends hours later, when the city finally settles into uneasy silence. Batman and Robin return with bruises and victory, weary but not broken.

“Good work tonight,” Bruce says over comms, simple words, but they land with weight.

“Yeah, Little Bird,” Dick adds warmly, pride in his voice. “You’re the best set of eyes we could ask for.”

Tim leans back in the chair at last, exhaustion sinking into his small body, but his grin is unstoppable. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like an outsider hovering around the edges of their world. He feels like part of the team.

—

The Batcave hums in its usual chorus—computers whirring, scanners beeping, the faint drip of water from the stalactites high above. Tim sits at the Batcomputer, headset snug on his ears, dwarfed by the chair. He’s monitoring traffic cams, cycling through police frequencies, waiting for Bruce to radio in.

The night has been strangely quiet, Gotham holding its breath in that eerie way it sometimes does. Tim drums his fingers against the desk, eyes scanning a data feed on the smuggling routes Bruce asked him to track.

The comm crackles.

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice is gravel, rougher than usual.

Tim sits upright instantly. “Here. Go ahead.”

“I’m coming in. We’ll have a visitor tonight.”

Tim perks up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. A visitor? He tilts his head, already making assumptions. Bruce sometimes meets with metas, sometimes with Justice League allies. His mind spins quickly—what kind of powers? Telekinesis? Energy manipulation?

“Copy that,” Tim answers, professional as always, though excitement itches in his chest. He adjusts his glasses and pulls up the Batcave’s entry cam, waiting.

Minutes pass before the sound of the Batmobile’s engine fills the cave, low and thunderous, reverberating through the cavern like the growl of some ancient beast. Tim leans forward, eager.

The Batmobile rolls to a stop. The driver’s side opens, Batman stepping out in all his shadowed, imposing presence. But it’s not Bruce Tim’s eyes lock onto.

It’s the boy climbing out of the passenger seat.

A boy maybe twelve, wiry but sturdy, dressed in a patched hoodie and jeans. His dark hair sticks out in tufts, and his blue eyes are sharp and wary, scanning the cave like a cornered animal ready to bolt or bite.

Tim’s jaw almost hits the floor. “That’s…that’s a kid.”

Jason Todd freezes halfway out of the car, blinking rapidly as his gaze lands on Tim. On the tiny ten-year-old perched at the Batcomputer, feet dangling, headset too big on his small head.

“…The hell is this?” Jason blurts out.

Tim recovers just enough to sputter, “You’re not a meta!”

Jason scowls, slamming the car door behind him. “No, I’m not a meta! Who are you supposed to be? The Bat’s intern?”

Tim bristles. “I’m not an intern! I run comms. I monitor police chatter. I handle field coordination.” He lifts his chin with practiced dignity, though the effect is somewhat undercut by how small he looks in the chair.

Jason snorts, folding his arms. “What are you, like, eight?”

“Ten,” Tim corrects automatically, glaring.

Jason raises a brow. “Oh, big difference.”

“Enough.” Bruce’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. He steps fully into the light, the cape’s shadow swallowing both boys. “Jason Todd. He tried to steal the tires off the Batmobile.”

Tim blinks so hard it’s audible. “You what?”

Jason shrugs, unapologetic. “Hey, if you can jack a car in Crime Alley, you can jack anything. Didn’t know the Bat drove this one himself.”

Tim stares at him, stunned. “You tried to—Bruce, why did you bring him here? He literally just tried to steal the—”

“Because,” Bruce interrupts firmly, “he’s not going back to the streets.”

Jason stiffens, eyes darting to Bruce. He mutters something under his breath—half suspicion, half gratitude—but doesn’t argue.

Tim sits back, heart still racing. This isn’t what he expected. At all. He thought Bruce was bringing home a League contact, maybe a metahuman. Instead, it’s this rough, loudmouthed street kid who looks like he’s ready to punch the world if it stares too long.

Jason, meanwhile, can’t stop sneaking glances at Tim. A kid smaller than him, sitting in the Batcave, running the giant computer like he was born to it.

“You seriously let him mess with all this?” Jason demands, gesturing to the monitors.

Tim bristles again. “Yes. Because I’m capable.”

Jason smirks, sharp and mocking. “Capable of what, kid?”

Tim narrows his eyes. “I was hacking the Pentagon last week.”

That stops Jason cold. “…You what?”

Bruce, already walking past toward the changing area, mutters without breaking stride, “Don’t get caught.”

Jason whirls on him, slack-jawed. “You’re just gonna—wait, you’re okay with this?!”

Tim crosses his arms, smug. “Told you. Capable.”

Jason stares at him like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. Then, slowly, his mouth quirks into a grin. “You’re a weird little gremlin, you know that?”

Tim huffs. “Better than being a car thief.”

Jason barks out a laugh, loud and genuine, and for the first time that night, some of the sharp tension in his shoulders eases.

Bruce watches from a distance, expression unreadable. But in the subtle set of his jaw, in the almost imperceptible softening of his eyes, there’s something else. Something he won’t say aloud, but both boys will feel in time.

Their family has just grown by one.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson returns to Wayne Manor two days after Jason Todd’s arrival, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair windswept from Wally’s piggyback ride back from Metropolis. His old Young Justice teammates had dragged him through one adventure after another, and he’s been itching to be home—to flop into his own bed, raid Alfred’s kitchen, and tease Tim about whatever new gadget he’s inevitably tinkering with.

But the second he steps into the Manor, something feels…off. Different.

The house sounds alive. Too alive.

He can hear laughter—two distinct, high-pitched, mischievous laughs—echoing from the direction of the den. Then a crash. Then Alfred’s distinctly British sigh of long-suffering patience.

Dick blinks. Wait. There’s only one gremlin in this house, right? One small, terrifying, evil genius, tech-addicted, conspiracy-obsessed gremlin.

He jogs down the hall, throws open the door—

—and stops dead in his tracks.

Tim is on the couch, doubled over in laughter, while another boy—slightly taller, scrappier, maybe twelve—holds what looks like one of Alfred’s serving trays like it’s a shield. The coffee table is covered in cushions and couch pillows arranged into some kind of fortification. And from the look of it, they’ve been hurling dinner rolls at Alfred, who now stands primly in the doorway with a broom tucked under his arm like a knight bearing his lance.

“Timothy. Jason.” Alfred’s tone could freeze lava. “If either of you throws one more roll in my direction, I shall be forced to confiscate every crumb of dessert for a week.”

Tim immediately straightens, hiding a grin behind his hands. Jason, less cowed, grins wide and cheeky. “Aw, come on, Alfie. We were just testing the aerodynamic capabilities—”

“—of bread,” Tim supplies helpfully.

Jason elbows him, and they both dissolve into giggles.

Dick stares. What. The. Hell.

“Um,” he says finally, voice pitching upward in disbelief. “Who—what—when did we get a second one?”

Tim perks up, eyes bright. “Dick! You’re back!”

Jason squints, suspicious. “That’s your brother?”

“Older brother,” Tim corrects immediately, hopping over the couch to fling himself at Dick’s middle. “You missed so much!”

Jason follows more slowly, arms crossed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity beneath the wary front.

Dick lets Tim squeeze him, but his wide eyes stay locked on Bruce, who has appeared behind Alfred, looming like a stormcloud of inevitability.

“Bruce,” Dick says slowly, voice shaking with incredulous laughter. “You got another one.”

Bruce’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Jason is staying here now.”

“Staying here?” Dick repeats. “As in—” He gestures wildly at Tim, who beams up at him, then Jason, who glares like he’s already planning how to steal his wallet. “—as in, I leave for two days and come back to find out you’ve started a collection?”

Tim pipes up innocently, “We’re a set now.”

Jason smirks. “Limited edition, baby.”

Dick drags his hands down his face. “Oh my god.”

He turns to Bruce, pointing. “Once is an accident—Me. Twice is a coincidence—Timmy. But thrice, Bruce? Me, Tim, and him? All black hair, all blue eyes?” His voice cracks with incredulous hysteria. “It’s a pattern, Bruce!”

Tim and Jason exchange one look. Just one. And then, in perfect unison, they grin like the devils they are.

“Oh no,” Dick breathes.

It begins immediately.

The moment Dick sets his duffel down, Tim and Jason pounce. Tim is already rattling off Jason’s introduction in his rapid-fire style—“He tried to steal the Batmobile’s tires but then Bruce brought him here and I think he’s going to stay and he laughs at my jokes—” while Jason supplies color commentary—“He’s tiny but he’s scary-smart, like, hacking the Pentagon smart.”

Before Dick can process, they’ve dragged him toward the cave, demanding he watch their newest “improvements” to the Batcomputer setup. Alfred’s voice echoes after them—something about no reckless running in the cave, Master Tim!—but the boys are already halfway down the stairs.

Dick stumbles along, caught between delight and horror. He was used to corralling one little brother with too much brainpower for his own good. Now there are two. One with brains, one with fists, and both with the instincts of alley cats in a butcher shop.

By the time they’re done demonstrating how they rewired a practice drone to chase Alfred around the cave (Jason’s idea, Tim’s execution), Dick is pale.

“You two,” he says slowly, eyes darting between them, “are going to give me a full head of white hair before I hit twenty.”

Jason grins, throwing an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “That’s the plan, big bro.”

Tim nods seriously, glasses slipping down his nose. “We already made a list.”

Dick chokes. “You what—?”

From the shadows, Bruce watches silently, cape draped around him. Alfred stands beside him, posture perfect, though his eyes betray his exasperation.

Bruce says nothing. But in the faintest twitch of his lips, Alfred recognizes it—the tiniest ghost of a smile.

—

The cave echoes with the familiar symphony of sparring: the smack of wooden staffs colliding, the shuffle of boots against the mat, the occasional sharp grunt of effort. The cavernous space is lit in pale blue from the overhead lights, throwing long shadows that dance along the stalactites.

Jason perches on the edge of a low platform, legs dangling, watching the show below. He’s still getting used to this—the endless space of the Batcave, the ridiculous tech humming everywhere, the sheer wealth of it all. But the sight in front of him? That makes sense. Batman and Robin sparring—it’s like watching a storm crash against itself, precise and merciless. Jason can’t look away.

Beside him, Tim is catching his breath, a towel draped across his shoulders. Sweat beads at his hairline, his face flushed from his turn on the mats earlier. He sits, shoulders barely brushing Jason’s, and lifts a water bottle to his lips.

For a while, they just sit in companionable silence, the air filled with the clack of bo staff against escrima sticks. Then Jason blurts, almost too quickly, “I wanna do that too.”

Tim blinks, turning his sharp eyes toward him. “Do what?”

Jason jerks his chin toward the sparring match below. “Be a hero. Like them. Not just stealing tires and scraping by. I mean… actually doing something. Y’know, helping the kids in Crime Alley who don’t get second chances like I did.”

Tim studies him for a moment, gaze thoughtful in that unnervingly adult way of his. His blue eyes soften. Then, after a pause, he says, “Why don’t you be Robin first?”

Jason almost chokes. He whirls on him, eyes wide. “What? No way. You’re here first. If I take Robin from you, that’s—it’d be unfair. Stealing it, basically. I’m not doing that to you.”

Tim just tilts his head, a little smile quirking at his lips. He nudges Jason’s arm lightly, casual but firm. “Jay, I’m ten. You’re twelve. Bruce told me when I was eight that the earliest—earliest—he’d consider me for Robin is when I’m thirteen. And that’s if I’m lucky. For all I know, he’s hoping I’ll stay behind the computer screen forever and be safe.”

Jason barks out a short laugh, sharp and rough around the edges. “Yeah, he does coddle you a lot, huh?”

Tim shrugs, still smiling, like it doesn’t sting. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. You’re ready now. You’ve got the guts, the fire, the street smarts. Gotham needs that.”

Silence falls again, heavier this time, filled only by the crack of wood on wood and Dick’s triumphant shout as he lands a clean hit on Bruce. Jason’s eyes stay fixed on the mats, but his voice drops to a whisper. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being Robin first?”

Tim turns toward him fully, that bright, sincere smile lighting his whole face. “Of course I am. You’d make a great Robin.”

Jason swallows hard, throat tight, because no one’s ever given him something like that before—permission, encouragement, belief. He leans back on his hands, staring up at the jagged ceiling, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

For the first time, “Robin” doesn’t feel like a dream for someone else. It feels like a possibility.

—

The training mats are cleared, and the cave is quiet except for the low hum of computers and the occasional drip of condensation echoing through the cavern. Jason has been sent upstairs, muttering about Alfred’s lectures on “proper sleep.” Bruce sits at the main console, reviewing something in grim silence, the monitors’ pale glow sharpening the angles of his jaw.

Tim tucks himself into one of the quieter corners of the cave, knees drawn up, a notebook balanced across them. His pencil scratches softly as he works—half schematics, half doodles. His hair sticks up in messy tufts from training earlier, but he looks content, absorbed in his little world.

“Hey, squirt.”

The voice is light, teasing without malice. Tim glances up, and Dick is walking toward him, uniform stripped down to the undersuit, hair damp from a quick shower. His grin is softer now, the one reserved for family.

Tim closes the notebook. “Hey, Dick.”

Dick drops down onto the step beside him, close but not crowding. He rests his elbows on his knees and lets the silence stretch for a moment, eyes sweeping over the cave. “So. I heard from Bruce.”

Tim tilts his head and teases Dick, “He talks to you about stuff?”

“Sometimes,” Dick says with a chuckle. “Not everything, but… the important things. And apparently, the important thing tonight is that you gave Jason your blessing to be Robin.”

Tim stills, hands folding over his notebook. He doesn’t look embarrassed, just thoughtful. “…Yeah. I did.”

Dick studies him. “That’s a big thing, Tim. You’ve wanted this since you were eight, right? And you just—handed it over.”

Tim shrugs, his smile small and lopsided. “Jay deserves it. He’s ready now. I’m not. Bruce told me himself that thirteen was the minimum, and even then, that might be pushing it. I don’t mind.”

Something twists in Dick’s chest. He reaches out, ruffling Tim’s hair until the boy swats at him. “You know, you remind me of me sometimes. Not in the loud, acrobatic way. In the… heart way. Back when I first started, I thought Robin was about the skills, the fighting, the costume. But it wasn’t. It was about being the partner Bruce needed, even if it meant putting myself second. And here you are, ten years old, already doing that.”

Tim ducks his head, cheeks tinged pink. “…I’m not a partner yet.”

“You will be,” Dick says without hesitation. “That much is obvious. Jason’s got the fire, yeah. He’s got that raw courage Gotham eats up. But you, Timmy—you’ve got perspective. You’re the kid who sees the bigger picture. The one who doesn’t mind waiting if it means keeping the team strong. That’s not a weakness. That’s leadership.”

Tim’s eyes flicker at that word. Leadership. It feels too big, too heavy, but Dick says it with such certainty that Tim can’t help but believe him, at least a little.

“…You don’t think I’m just hiding behind the computer?” Tim asks softly, almost testing him.

“No,” Dick says instantly. “I think you’re already one of us. Just in a different way. And when the time comes, you’re gonna be one hell of a Robin.”

For a moment, Tim doesn’t answer. Then he smiles—small, bright, and completely sincere. “Thanks, Dick.”

Dick bumps his shoulder against Tim’s. “Anytime, little brother.”

They sit together in silence, listening to the cave’s hum. At the console, Bruce finally looks up, gaze landing on them—his first son and partner beside the one who will one day be his third Robin. For just a moment, his expression softens.

The legacy of Robin is safe.

—

Jason shifts uneasily on his feet near the training mats, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. His eyes keep darting around—at the suits lined up in glass cases, at the sleek angles of the Batmobile, at the towering shadow of the man who has become his father figure. But it isn’t Bruce who calls him forward.

It’s Dick.

Tim sits cross-legged off to the side, bo staff laid across his lap, quiet as he watches with bright, attentive eyes. He knows this moment is important—so important that even he doesn’t dare interrupt with a joke.

“Jay,” Dick says, his voice softer than usual, stripped of the playful lilt he normally carries. He steps closer, holding something in his hands. Green, red, and yellow folded neatly, the fabric gleaming under the cave’s lights.

The Robin suit.

Jason’s breath hitches. “That’s—”

“Yeah,” Dick smiles, a little wistful, a little proud. “This has been mine since I was about your age. I wore it when I was learning, when I was fumbling in the dark, when I was trying to figure out who I was supposed to be standing next to Batman.” His gaze flickers briefly toward Bruce, who watches silently from the shadows, arms crossed but expression unreadable. Then back to Jason. “But I think it’s time it belongs to someone else.”

Jason blinks. “Me?” His voice cracks. “You–you want me to…?”

Dick chuckles, the sound warm. “I don’t want you to, Jay. You already are. I’ve seen it in you the first time since you had the guts to attempt to steal the Batmobile’s tires. You’ve got heart, you’ve got fight, and most of all—you’ve got this fire to protect people who can’t protect themselves. That’s Robin.”

Jason stares at the suit like it’s made of gold, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. But he still seems hesitant, eyes flicking over to Tim. “But—Tim’s here. He’s… he’s been training longer than me. He deserves it.”

Tim blinks in surprise but quickly shakes his head, offering Jason a reassuring smile. “I told you already, Jay. It’s yours first. Bruce and I talked about it ages ago. I’ll get my shot when I’m older. For now? You’re perfect for it.”

Jason looks between the two of them, throat working. For the first time in a long while, he’s at a loss for words.

Dick steps closer, placing the folded suit into Jason’s hands. “This doesn’t mean you have to be me,” he says firmly. “Or Bruce. Or anyone else. Robin’s more than a costume. It’s a promise. And I trust you to carry it.”

Jason swallows hard. His fingers tighten around the fabric, and for once, the usual sharp comebacks die on his tongue. Instead, his voice is small, quiet. “You really think I can do it?”

Dick smiles, proud and sure. “I don’t just think it, little brother. I know it.”

Jason lets out a shaky laugh, blinking hard, because no way is he tearing up in the Batcave. He holds the suit close, nodding quickly. “Then… I’ll do it. I’ll make you proud. Both of you.”

Bruce finally steps forward, resting a large hand on Jason’s shoulder, grounding him. “You already have.”

Tim grins so wide it nearly splits his face, bouncing to his feet and clapping. “Yeah! Jay’s Robin now! Can we celebrate with cake or something?”

Jason laughs wetly, shoving at him with his free hand. “Shut up, runt.”

Dick just pulls them both into a hug, suit and all, holding on like he doesn’t want to let go.

—

Tim was at the comms station, perched in front of one of the monitors with the steady determination of a boy who’d made the system his second home. Dick was leaning against the workbench, mask pushed up onto his forehead, flipping his escrima sticks with idle skill. Bruce was further back, glowering at a case file in silence, as one does.

And Jason… Jason was throwing batarangs at a practice dummy like it had personally offended him.

He was mid-throw when footsteps echoed down the staircase. Light, sure, familiar—but not one of theirs. It’s not Alfred’s. Jason froze, halfway through cocking his arm back for another throw, narrowing his eyes toward the sound.

The cave didn’t get visitors.

Then a flash of red hair, bright as a flare in the gloom, and a confident voice rang out, “Dick Grayson, you didn’t call me back.”

Jason nearly dropped the batarang in his hand when his older brother’s entire face transformed.

“Babs!” Dick’s grin was sudden, brilliant, and warm in a way Jason had never seen before. He strode over and wrapped the newcomer in a hug that was so natural it looked rehearsed. She laughed, slapping his shoulder like she belonged here—like she’d always belonged here.

Jason stared. What the hell.

He sidled closer to Tim, who hadn’t even looked up from the monitor, typing away like this was all normal. Jason leaned down and hissed in a whisper, “Who’s the chick?”

Tim finally glanced up, as calm as ever, and in his confident, most matter-of-fact voice said, “Oh, that’s Barbara Gordon. Commish’s daughter. Also Batgirl.”

Jason choked on his own spit. “There’s a Batgirl?!”

Tim nodded sagely, as though this was the weather report. “Yep. But lately she doesn’t feel the vigilante schtick anymore, said it’s getting less and less fulfilling, so she’s basically retired. Though she does help when Arkham has a breakout, so she’s here from time to time.”

Jason’s jaw dropped. He stared across the Cave where Dick was still chatting with Barbara, their voices animated and overlapping like old friends catching up after a long absence.

“There’s a Batgirl,” Jason repeated flatly. “And nobody told me.”

Tim’s expression didn’t change. He just leaned back in the chair, folding his arms like a little old man watching the world burn. “You’re new. We’ve got layers. You’ll catch up.”

Jason groaned, running both hands down his face. “First it’s Dick ditching Robin ang giving it to me, and now you’re telling me there’s an actual Batgirl—retired, no less—like it’s the weather report. What next, a Batdog?”

Tim didn’t even blink. “Ace the Bat-Hound is real, yeah. He’s upstairs.”

Jason stared at him. “...You’re fucking with me.”

Tim smiled beatifically. “Am I?”

Jason opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, muttering a curse under his breath. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Meanwhile, Barbara had broken away from Dick and was heading straight for Tim’s station. Her heels clicked smartly against the Cave floor, a sound far too civilized for the dripping stone, and she leaned down over the boy’s shoulder with an approving hum.

She ruffles his hair affectionately. “Hey, partner. You holding this cave together while these guys brood and sulk?”

Tim grins, shoulders finally relaxing in a way Jason rarely sees. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Barbara smirks. “That’s my boy.”

Jason gapes. “That’s your boy? What the—Tim, you know Batgirl?”

Tim doesn’t even look at him. He just swivels in his chair and continues scrolling through data. “Told you. Layers.”

Jason sputters, trying to process the fact that not only is there a Batgirl, but she’s already tight with his little brother. Barbara throws Jason a glance over her shoulder, a teasing sparkle in her eye. “You must be the new kid.”

Jason bristles. “Yeah. Jason.”

Her smirk widens. “Careful, Jason. I could put you on your back before you blink.”

Jason freezes. Tim tried—really tried—not to laugh, but the little snort that escaped was impossible to contain.

Dick returns just in time to see Jason’s scandalized face, Tim’s shoulders shaking with quiet laughter, and Barbara looking smug as ever. He claps Jason on the back. “Don’t worry, little wing. You’ll get used to her. We all did.”

Jason scowls, “That doesn’t make me feel better, man.”

But Tim, eyes sparkling with mischief, leans in and whispers just loud enough for Jason to hear, “Told you. Layers.”

And for once, Jason didn’t have a comeback.

—

Bruce, his cowl down, is leaning over a map of Gotham’s Narrows, Jason is working the edge of a bo staff against the mats, and Tim is fiddling with his tablet, no doubt upgrading something in the comms system that didn’t even need upgrading.

Then Dick, former Boy Wonder, bursts into the space like a thunderclap.

He’s grinning from ear to ear, eyes practically glowing, energy radiating off him in waves. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, sweeping his arms with the flair of a Broadway actor, “boys of all ages, feast your eyes on Gotham’s brand new protector.”

Jason pauses mid-spin with his staff, brows shooting up. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

Bruce looks up from the map with that same patient stillness, the kind that says he already knows what’s coming and regrets it deeply.

Tim blinks, wide-eyed, tilting his head like a curious bird. “...This isn’t about you growing a mustache again, right?”

Dick ignores them both, pivoting on his heel like a magician about to reveal his final trick. “I have retired as Robin. But Gotham cannot be without the grace, the acrobatics, the dazzling charm that is Dick Grayson. No, Gotham needs—” He flourishes dramatically. “—Nightwing!”

Jason’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. “Nightwing?”

“Yes!” Dick beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s Kryptonian. A legend from Uncle Clark’s planet. A hero who defied tyranny and struck out on his own. Cool, right? Symbolic, dramatic, timeless!”

Tim gasps, actually delighted. “Oh, I know that story! Uncle Clark told me about it! Nightwing was a hero who fought alongside Flamebird. That’s amazing, Dick!”

Jason squints. “Cool name. Fine. But what’s with the—oh no. Oh no.”

Because Dick has stepped into the light, and there it is.

The suit.

It’s bright blue and jet black, angular like some disco fever nightmare. The gloves flare out dramatically, the boots glint, collar standing up like a soldier standing at attention, and oh god—oh no—the neckline plunges so deep it’s practically a canyon.

The deep V-neck of doom.

Jason drops his staff with a clatter. “You look like… like a rejected member of Queen!”

Tim’s jaw drops, horror etched across his small face. “Dick. Dick, no. The V goes down to your stomach! I can see your collarbones! I can see your soul!”

Dick gasps in mock offense, clutching at his chest. “This is cutting-edge superhero fashion! Bold! Fearless! Unforgettable!”

Jason is cackling now, doubled over. “You look unforgettable, all right. Like a figure skater who got lost on the way to a Saturday Night Fever audition.”

“Jason!” Tim squeaks, then points furiously at the neckline again. “That’s not aerodynamic! What if something snags? What if you’re hanging upside down and a pigeon lands in there?”

Bruce, in the background, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I told you not to go with the V-neck.”

“You don’t get it!” Dick protests, spinning around to show off the dramatic blue wings that arc across his chest. “This is art! This is a symbol of independence! Of flying free! Of shaking off the shadow of Batman!”

Jason wheezes, “You look like you’re about to shake it off at Studio 54!”

Tim scrambles for his tablet, snapping pictures furiously. “I’m sending this to Uncle Clark. And Barbara. And literally everyone.”

“Traitor!” Dick howls, lunging after him, cape flaring.

Bruce exhales heavily, muttering something under his breath about discipline and why did I let Clark tell him stories about Kryptonian legends. Alfred, ever the gentleman, sets the tea tray down and clears his throat.

“I believe, Master Dick, that while the symbolism is admirable, the presentation might be…” His eyes flick down to the neckline, his face utterly polite. “…best adjusted before you patrol in it.”

Jason collapses onto the mat, still laughing so hard he can barely breathe. “Oh my god—oh my god. The discowing. That’s what this is. This is the discowing!”

“Don’t you dare call it that!” Dick yells, pointing a finger at him.

Tim, beaming, repeats cheerfully, “Discowing!”

“Discowing!” Jason echoes between wheezes.

Bruce turns away, cape sweeping, muttering something very much like, “I have failed as a father.”

—

The manor is quiet tonight. Gotham is still groaning outside the windows, but inside the walls of Wayne Manor, it’s all hush and warmth. Alfred has long since retired to the kitchen, Bruce is buried in the Cave with the case files, and Jason—well, Jason is sprawled upside down on the couch watching something loud enough to rattle the glass.

Tim is in his room, pencil scratching furiously over paper. His desk lamp glows bright, illuminating a stack of drafts he’s already tossed aside. He chews his lip, focused, tiny brows furrowed in concentration. Every so often, he glances at the tablet propped on the desk, where a reference picture of the monstrosity known as the “discowing” glares back at him.

He shudders, erases something, and starts again.

By the time the knock comes, Tim’s already hunched over what feels like the one.

“Hey, little gremlin, you in here?” Dick’s voice floats in, cheery as ever. He doesn’t wait for permission before stepping inside, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie—mercifully not the discowing.

Tim swivels in his chair and clutches the sketchbook to his chest like it’s state secrets. “Perfect timing,” he says solemnly. “I need to save your life.”

Dick blinks, thrown off. “…What?”

Tim thrusts the sketchbook at him. “Here. Look. I couldn’t sleep after seeing… that.” He points vaguely, unwilling to give the V-neck the dignity of being named. “So I fixed it.”

Dick takes the sketchbook, raising a brow—then freezes.

On the page is a new suit. Black, sleek, sharp-lined, with a bright blue bird that stretches across the chest and down the arms. Functional, streamlined. No plunging V. No disco nightmares.

“…Whoa,” Dick breathes, eyes widening.

Tim rocks back and forth on his heels, suddenly nervous. “It—it’s just a sketch, you don’t have to—”

“No, Timmy,” Dick cuts him off, kneeling down so he’s eye-level with his little brother. “This is… incredible.” His voice softens, eyes crinkling at the edges. “This is… me. Like, really me.”

Tim grins sheepishly, ears going red. “Well, I couldn’t let Gotham criminals laugh themselves to death before you even punch them. That’d be embarrassing.”

Dick barks a laugh, ruffling Tim’s hair. “You little punk. But seriously, this is perfect.” He looks back at the page, tracing the lines like they’re sacred. “I’ve been… thinking, you know. About where I go from here. The Titans were one thing, but I keep feeling like I’m supposed to try… being solo. Standing on my own.”

Tim tilts his head, listening. He’s quiet in that way he always is—sharp-eyed, thoughtful, waiting for the important part.

Dick exhales slowly. “Blüdhaven’s a mess. Worse than Gotham in some ways. Smaller city, smaller crimes, but the people there… they don’t have anyone. Gotham’s got Batman. But Blüdhaven?” He shakes his head. “It needs someone like Nightwing.”

Tim studies him for a long moment, then nods, slow but sure. “Then they’ll be really lucky,” he says simply. “Because they’ll have you.”

Something flickers across Dick’s face—surprise, then pride, then a warmth so strong it almost breaks him. He pulls Tim into a hug, tight and sudden. “God, you’re too good for us, you know that?”

Tim muffles against his hoodie, “I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself. You’d never live it down.”

Dick laughs again, squeezing him tighter. “Deal. No more deep V’s. Only birds and blue. Scout’s honor.”

Tim pulls back, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Good. Because if you ever wear that discowing thing again, I’ll call Uncle Clark and tell him you dishonored Kryptonian legend.”

Dick gasps in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Tim’s grin widens. “Try me.”

Dick ruffles Tim’s hair again, softer this time, then leans back on his heels. “Hey. Just because I’ll be in Blüdhaven doesn’t mean I’m ditching you guys. I’ll still be in Gotham all the time. Patrol, team-ups, movie nights—you name it.”

Tim blinks up at him. “Really?”

“Really,” Dick promises, voice steady. “Once I set up a Zeta over there, it’ll be like having my own personal teleporter. Boom, I’m here in five minutes, ready to steal Alfred’s cookies or bail you out of homework.” He grins. “You’re not losing me, Timmy. Not even close.”

Tim’s shoulders relax, the tension in his small frame easing. “Good. ‘Cause Jason would probably set something on fire if you left for real.”

Dick laughs. “Yeah, fair point.” He lets the quiet stretch for a moment, then glances back down at the sketch. The sleek blue bird stares back at him, sharp and alive. And for the first time, he thinks about more than the suit.

He’s eighteen now. Old enough to make choices that stick. Old enough to decide not just who he is at night, but who he’ll be when the sun comes up.

The thought has been needling him for weeks, but it hits harder when he remembers all those trips to Raccoon City. Fetching Tim, walking past the officers in blue uniforms, watching them joke with each other in the hallways even when the city felt like it was crumbling around them.

The RPD wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t capes or cowls. But it was… good. Solid. People helping people, in broad daylight.

Dick rubs the back of his neck, thoughtful. “You know, I keep thinking… maybe I should do something with my days, too. Not just the nights. Something that still helps people. Doesn’t have to be big. Just… real.”

Tim tilts his head, studying him like he always does. “Like the police.”

Dick chuckles, caught. “Yeah. Like the police. Or something like it. I don’t know. But the way those guys at RPD carried themselves… it stuck with me. And if they can protect a city like Raccoon, then maybe I can do the same for Blüdhaven.”

Tim smiles faintly, almost proud. “I think you’d be good at that.”

Dick nudges him with his shoulder. “Think so?”

“Yeah.” Tim nods, firm. “You’re already good at it. You just wear a mask most of the time.”

That earns him another laugh, bright and unrestrained. Dick closes the sketchbook gently, holding it like something precious, and slings an arm around Tim.

“Guess I’ll just have to figure it out,” he says, softer now. “Nightwing at night, and… maybe Richard Grayson, decent citizen, during the day.”

Tim leans into him, grinning. “As long as decent citizen Grayson never wears the disco suit again.”

Dick groans. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.”

—

The cave hums with the low drone of servers, the occasional beep from the Batcomputer, and the rapid-fire clacking of Tim’s fingers on the keys. The main screen glows in shifting grids of Gotham’s map, camera feeds flickering across smaller windows.

Tim is in his chair—his chair, now, because no one else fits there as neatly as he does—feet barely brushing the floor as he scrolls, switches, and pulls feeds like he’s playing a piano.

In the field, three voices filter through his headset.

“Nightwing on the north side of Park Row. Three armed, one lookout. Easy grab.”

Jason’s voice follows, sharper, with a smile hidden behind it. “Robin in Crime Alley. Guy with a crowbar thought he could scare kids for cash. He’s running.”

Then the gravel voice of Bruce comes through, steady as always, “Batman. Industrial District. Truck headed south. Cargo’s… suspicious.”

Tim adjusts his mic. “Copy, all of you. Nightwing, the lookout’s already spotted you. He’s moving east, down to the alley. Two blocks, right turn—you can cut him off from the fire escape.”

A pause, then Dick’s voice, low whistle. “What, are you psychic now?”

Tim grins, leaning closer to the monitor. “Nope. He tripped a camera on Fourth. Don’t miss the timing.”

“Never do, little man.”

Through the feed, Tim sees the blur of blue and black drop from the shadows. The lookout doesn’t stand a chance.

Tim doesn’t even get to savor the small victory before Jason cuts in, breathless. “Computer, can I get some eyes here? The guy with the crowbar just ducked into old Garrison’s pawn shop. He’s faster than he looks.”

Tim is already typing. “Camera three on Archer Street—got him. Jason, if you swing two rooftops west, you’ll intercept him as he comes out the back door. He’ll try it, trust me. There’s a ladder back exit.”

“On it.” A beat later, Jason adds, “Thanks, little brother.”

Tim can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out, but his focus doesn’t waver. He flicks another feed onto the main screen.

“Batman,” he says, tone snapping back to business. “That truck you’re tailing? I hacked into the traffic cams. It’s not making a delivery—it’s circling blocks. Someone’s testing your pattern.”

There’s a pause long enough for Tim to worry he overstepped. Then Bruce’s voice comes, low and approving, “Good catch. Patch me the route.”

“Already on your screen.”

For several minutes, all three are in motion. Tim is the constant, the pulse running through the team—switching feeds, relaying shortcuts, warning about loose rooftops, alley ambushes, weapons in hand. His words thread through their movements, quiet but sharp, like he’s been doing this forever.

Then comes the comedy, because with three out in the field, it’s inevitable.

“Nightwing,” Tim says carefully, “you’re about to run right into—”

Too late. Dick barrels face-first into a hanging laundry line. Socks and a bedsheet wrap around his head like a net.

Tim slaps a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. “—the laundry.”

Jason’s laugh explodes in his ear. “Oh my god, you’re a legend. Did you get that on camera?”

“I’m saving it,” Tim admits.

“You wouldn’t dare—” Dick starts, muffled by cotton.

“Already labeled the file ‘Sockwing.’”

Even Bruce’s steady voice can’t hide the exhale that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed chuckle.

When the dust settles, the team regroups, criminals cuffed and cargo secured. The city quiets under the echo of their movements.

Back in the cave, Tim stretches his sore shoulders. His eyes are tired, but bright.

The comms crackle one last time, Bruce’s voice steady. “Good work tonight.”

Jason adds, “You’re a natural, kid.”

And Dick, still grumbling about socks, sighs. “Fine, you can keep the Sockwing footage. Just… don’t show Alfred.”

Tim grins at the screens, heart warm.

—

It’s quieter than usual tonight. No patrol, no clattering of training dummies being torn apart by Bruce’s relentless precision, no acrobatics routine that Dick insists is “fun, promise.” Just Jason and Tim, the younger perched cross-legged on a mat, twirling his bo staff idly.

Jason watches him with a squint, arms folded. He’s only twelve, but standing near Tim makes him feel older, heavier somehow, like the responsibility settles naturally on his shoulders.

“You know,” Jason starts, voice casual, “B and Goldie—” he jerks his chin toward the empty space where Bruce and Dick usually stand, “—they’re giving you the shiny training. Martial arts, sticks, flips. All that fancy stuff.”

Tim glances up, frowning slightly. “And that’s… bad?”

Jason smirks, crouching so they’re eye to eye. “Nah. It’s good. You’ll need it. But Gotham doesn’t fight clean. You think some guy with a switchblade in Crime Alley is gonna square up and bow first? Nah, kid. He’s gonna sucker-punch you, maybe throw sand in your face, then run. That’s the real world.”

Tim tilts his head, thoughtful, the way he always is when processing. “So… you’re saying I need to learn how to fight dirty.”

Jason’s grin flashes wolfish. “Exactly. And lucky for you, I’m an expert.”

Before Tim can respond, Jason sweeps his leg lightly, knocking Tim onto his back with a surprised yelp. Jason looms over him, smirking. “Rule number one: always expect the unexpected.”

Tim groans, pushing himself up, bo staff clattering beside him. “That was mean.”

“Effective,” Jason corrects. He offers Tim a hand up, then adds, “Rule number two: size doesn’t matter if you hit first. Or if you hit smart.”

The next half-hour turns into a crash course in street survival. Jason shows him how to use knees, elbows, even teeth if you have to. How to go for weak spots—the gut, the nose, the shin. How to turn a small frame into an advantage, slipping under someone’s guard or using their momentum against them.

Tim listens, wide-eyed but focused, soaking up every word. He practices the moves Jason demonstrates, not with the clean precision Bruce drills into him, but with a kind of scrappy sharpness that makes Jason grin with pride.

At one point, Jason crouches behind him, guiding his hands. “No, kiddo, don’t swing wide. Jab fast, sharp, like you’re trying to startle the guy, not knock him out cold. Then when he’s stunned—bam.” He taps Tim’s shoulder, pretending it’s a strike to the temple.

Tim nods, adjusting. He tries again, faster this time, sharper, and Jason whistles. “There you go. See? You got it.”

There’s a lull, and Tim looks up at him, curious. “Why are you teaching me this?”

Jason leans back on his heels, expression softening. “Because Bruce and Dick? They’re trying to make you strong, polished, the kind of hero Gotham writes headlines about. Me?” He shrugs. “I just want to make sure you don’t get your face smashed in when some guy fights dirty. I want you to make it home.”

For a second, Tim just stares at him, small and thoughtful. Then he smiles, bright and warm, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight in the Cave. “Thanks, Jay.”

Jason ruffles his hair roughly, because he’s twelve and grew up in the streets for practically his whole life and still figuring out how to deal with warm feelings. “Don’t thank me yet, baby bird. Next lesson’s gonna be pickpocketing.”

Tim blinks. “…What?”

Jason’s grin turns mischievous. “What? You think crime alley smarts don’t include light fingers? C’mon, you’re a detective in training. You gotta know how to take a wallet without anyone noticing.”

Tim groans, but he’s already smiling as Jason stands, patting his own pockets like a challenge.

Somewhere, if Alfred walks in right now, he’ll faint.

—

Jason leans against the hood of the Batmobile like it’s his personal throne, arms folded, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. Tim sits cross-legged on the floor beside him, notebook open but largely ignored, his attention laser-focused on every word Jason drops.

“See, kid,” Jason explains, holding up his own battered wallet as a prop, “it’s not about being the fastest hands. It’s about being the smartest eyes. You don’t go for the grab until you’ve set the stage.” He flicks the wallet into the air, catches it. “People notice what you tell ‘em to notice. Everything else? They won’t even feel it.”

Tim’s eyes sparkle with that dangerous brand of curiosity only he possesses—the kind that says he’s already ten steps ahead, plotting applications.

“Like sleight of hand?” Tim asks.

“Exactly. Just meaner.” Jason grins, pleased.

And then Dick walks in, toweling sweat from his hair, fresh from training. He pauses mid-step when he sees the two of them hunched together in a suspicious little conference. His older brother instincts flare immediately.

“Oh no,” Dick says slowly, narrowing his eyes. “What are you teaching him?”

Jason tilts his head back and smirks. “Just some survival skills. Y’know, things the Boy Wonder Academy doesn’t cover.”

Dick groans. “I knew leaving you two alone would be a mistake.” He ruffles Tim’s hair anyway, because Tim is looking at him with that sunshine smile. “Don’t let him talk you into bad habits, Timmy.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tim says innocently. “I’d never do that.”

Which is precisely the moment Tim slips in close, brushes against Dick like he’s going in for a hug—sweet, casual, perfectly timed. Dick, being Dick—a sucker for affection, softens instantly. He wraps an arm around Tim and ruffles his hair harder this time, laughing.

And that’s when it happens, it’s so quick no one realizes it until Tim is already halfway across the cave.

By the time he pulls his hand away, Tim is already skipping backward, grinning like the devil himself. He holds something shiny in the air.

“Guess who’s buying us ice cream, Jay!” Tim hollers, waving Dick’s wallet triumphantly above his head.

For a split second, there’s silence. Dick blinks, pats his pocket, and his eyes go wide with disbelief. Jason’s jaw drops.

Then—laughter. Jason doubles over, wheezing. “No way—no way you actually pulled that on him! Oh, Timbo, you’re a menace!”

Tim just laughs and waves Dick’s wallet over his head like a trophy. “Fastest hands in Gotham!”

Dick’s face cycles through stunned horror, grudging admiration, and then an expression that promises revenge. “Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you give that back right now!”

“Catch me if you can!” Tim shouts, already sprinting for the stairs, cackling.

Jason howls with laughter, then bolts after him. “You heard him, Wingnut—ice cream’s on you!”

“Oh, no you don’t—!” Dick launches himself after both of them, towel flying, chasing the two gremlins with a mix of indignation and reluctant amusement.

Bruce, watching from the shadows of the Batcomputer, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I trained a family of criminals,” he mutters under his breath. But even he can’t quite hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The sound of laughter and pounding footsteps echoes through the cave—two little brothers causing chaos, and one exasperated older brother hot on their heels.

—

Jason’s laughter bounces down the hallway like a dare, reckless and sharp, followed by Dick’s theatrical groan of “You little gremlin—give it back!” Somewhere below, Alfred’s calm reprimand mingles with Bruce’s low rumble of words, and it all wraps together into the sort of sound that makes Wayne Manor feel more like a home.

Tim lies on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, the muffled echoes reaching even here. He’s eleven now. Double digits had felt like a big deal when he turned ten, but eleven is different. Eleven presses down on his chest like a weight.

Because Tim knows something is coming.

He can’t name it, not yet. Can’t sketch its shape in the shadows. But the air itself feels wrong, heavier with every passing day, and the feeling coils in his stomach every time he remembers Raccoon City—the alleys, the labs, the way the streets feel alive with secrets no one else sees. Something’s building, and soon it’s going to break.

Tim rolls onto his side, staring at his nightstand. The laughter from the hall sharpens, followed by Jason shouting something triumphant. It makes Tim’s lips curve, for a moment. But then the smile fades, and he slides off the bed.

His knees hit the carpet softly as he reaches under the frame. His fingers brush against wood, and with a grunt, he pulls out the cork board he’s kept hidden there for months.

It’s not just a board. It’s the secret heart of every hour he’s stolen from sleep, every hushed call with Sherry when the mansion is quiet and the world feels far away.

The board is a map of obsession.

Umbrella’s logo stares back from a dozen places—pamphlets, scraps of print-outs, blurred photos taped at odd angles. Beside it are hand-scribbled notes, lines connecting names: William Birkin. Albert Wesker. Chief Irons. Newspaper clippings curl at the edges, headlines cut sharp: “Local Pharmaceutical Expansion Promises Jobs”—“Police Chief Praised for Community Involvement.” All lies, Tim knows.

His gaze catches on one picture in particular: a candid shot of William Birkin, smiling too wide at a press event. Tim remembers Sherry’s voice, flat and bitter—That’s my dad, always smiling for someone else’s camera.

Tim touches the edge of that photo now, jaw tight. He and Sherry had dug through Umbrella’s database together—Tim with his fingertips flying over the keyboard, Sherry whispering the names of files she’d heard her father mention. They’d found nothing concrete. Just scraps. William Birkin was too smart, too careful.

Tim had raged quietly at that. If it’s not digital, it’s personal, he’d muttered to Sherry once. Laptop. Paper records. Somewhere he keeps close, somewhere even Umbrella doesn’t touch.

Sherry had agreed, her voice small through the line. I’ll look. You keep watching from your side, okay?

And so they’d built this board together. A fragile tether stretched between Gotham and Raccoon City, tied with pushpins and string and the quiet desperation of two kids who know too much.

Tim sits cross-legged on the floor, staring at the mess of it. His fingers trace one red string from Umbrella to Wesker’s name, then from Wesker to Chief Irons. He knows the pattern is here, buried beneath layers of lies. If he looks hard enough, he’ll find it.

But tonight the weight of it presses heavier than usual.

Because amidst the board’s chaos, amidst the sharp edges of secrets, Tim can hear his brothers laughing. Jason’s voice cracks on a cackle, Dick’s laughter following like an echo, and for a moment Tim hates himself for sitting here instead of joining them. For carrying this when he could just…let it go. Be eleven and act like the kid he is.

But he can’t.

Because in his gut, Tim knows the laughter won’t last. Not when Raccoon is already rotting from the inside out. Not when Umbrella has roots this deep.

Tim drags a hand down his face, forcing his eyes to stay on the board. He tells himself the weight is good—it keeps him sharp, keeps him prepared. He tells himself Bruce would understand if he knew. He tells himself Sherry is counting on him.

And yet, somewhere under all those layers of logic, Tim feels the truth:

He’s eleven years old. And he’s terrified of what’s coming.

The cork board glows faintly in the spill of moonlight from the window, a patchwork of evidence and desperation. Tim sits with it for a long time, letting the laughter from down the hall wash over him like a ghost of something normal.

Then, with careful hands, he slides the board back under the bed. Out of sight. Never out of mind.

Tim crawls back into bed and curls beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling once more. His chest feels heavy, but his eyes burn with the same quiet determination as always.

When it comes—whatever it is—he’ll be ready.

He has to be.

—

Raccoon City sleeps uneasily.

The Birkin household is too big for comfort, too wide and echoing with all the wrong kinds of silence. Sherry hates it most at night, when her footsteps sound too loud and every shadow feels like it’s watching her.

But tonight, fear sits heavy in her stomach for a different reason.

Because she’s sneaking into her father’s office.

The door is locked, of course. William Birkin never leaves it open anymore—not when he spends every hour buried in his work. But locks are just puzzles, and Sherry’s gotten good at puzzles, especially with someone like Tim teaching her. A bobby pin, a little patience, a shaky breath held tight—click. The latch gives, the sound too loud in the quiet hall.

Sherry freezes, heart pounding in her ears. Nothing stirs. No footsteps from upstairs. No stern voice snapping her name.

She pushes the door open, and the office swallows her whole.

The air smells faintly of chemicals and coffee gone sour. Papers scatter across the desk like a storm, but Sherry knows her father’s chaos—this isn’t random. Every note is stacked in its place, every scrap organized in a way only William understands.

She swallows, clutching her flashlight tighter. Tim’s voice echoes in her head: If it’s not digital, it’s paper. Somewhere close. Somewhere he doesn’t let Umbrella touch.

“Laptop, too,” Sherry whispers to herself, her voice a shaky anchor in the dark. “If he has one. Has to.”

She creeps forward, pulling herself up onto the rolling chair to sit at the desk. Her legs dangle as she reaches for the top drawer, sliding it open slowly. Medical reports. Charts filled with terms she barely understands. Words like mutation and specimen viability.

Her stomach turns.

She flicks through page after page, but nothing screams secret, nothing jumps out. It’s all too clinical, too careful.

Her flashlight beam wobbles as she glances around. The desk, the drawers, the bookshelf lined with binders. Every inch feels like it hides something, like if she just looks harder—

The floor creaks above her.

Sherry freezes. The house is too quiet for accidents. That sound is footsteps. Her father’s? Her mother’s? Either one would mean disaster.

She flicks off the flashlight, heart hammering, and slides off the chair. The desk drawer isn’t closed all the way, and she scrambles to shove it shut before ducking beneath the desk.

Silence.

Then, muffled voices upstairs. Her father’s sharp, precise tone. Her mother’s softer, placating one. Sherry holds her breath until the sound fades, then forces her limbs to move. She darts from the desk, tiny feet silent on the carpet, and slips back into the hall.

The office door clicks shut behind her.

She doesn’t dare lock it again—not when the bobby pin feels slippery in her sweating hand. Instead she bolts down the hall, into her bedroom, into the cocoon of her blankets.

It’s only once she’s hidden in the dark that she lets herself breathe.

She didn’t find anything tonight. Nothing useful.

But she will.

Because she and Tim made a promise.

She presses her face into her pillow, the memory of his determined little smile burning in her chest. If Tim can carry the weight in Gotham, then she can do the same here.

Whatever her father’s hiding, whatever Umbrella is planning—it won’t stay buried forever.

Not if the two of them have anything to say about it.

—

The sound of suitcase wheels bumping gently along the stairs echo among the halls. Tim is at the bottom, small hands steadying the handle of his backpack. It’s already half-zipped, crammed with books, gadgets, and enough snacks to survive a siege. He moves with the air of someone who’s done this too many times before—efficient, neat, resigned.

Jason, perched on the arm of the couch, frowns. “What’s with the luggage, short stack? You going somewhere?”

Tim doesn’t look up, just checks the straps again. “Yeah. My parents want me to come with them to Raccoon City.” His tone is flat, careful, as though he’s reciting a fact from a textbook instead of something that touches his own life.

Jason’s frown deepens. “Raccoon what-now? Where even is that?”

Before Tim can answer, Dick saunters in, balancing a mug of cocoa in one hand. He’s still in sweats, hair sticking up like he just rolled out of bed. But his expression shifts immediately when he sees the tension brewing. “Oh boy,” he mutters, setting the mug down on the mantle. “Here we go.”

Jason swivels toward him, suspicious. “Okay, you look like you know something. Spill. Why’s the kid packing like he’s being shipped off to boarding school?”

Tim stiffens, shoulders hunching. “It’s fine, Jason—”

“No, it’s not fine,” Jason snaps, glaring at him before turning back to Dick. “Talk.”

Dick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. So. The Drakes—Tim’s parents—they… travel. A lot. More than a lot. They drag Tim along every few months, drop him in Raccoon City, and then—well—they leave him there.”

Jason blinks. Once. Twice. His voice climbs a full octave. “Excuse me? They what?”

Tim winces. “It’s not that bad—”

Jason shoots to his feet, fists clenching. “Not that bad?! They ditch you in some random city and just—what—leave you to fend for yourself until Bruce comes to pick you up?” His voice is shaking now, not with uncertainty but with raw, boiling rage.

Dick holds up his hands quickly, trying to soften the explosion. “Jay, calm down—”

“I will not calm down!” Jason shouts, pacing now like a caged animal. “What kind of parents—no, what kind of human beings—think that’s okay? He’s only eleven! And he’s been living with you guys since he was eight! So this has been happening for three years?”

Tim bites his lip, eyes glued to the floor. “They remember me. Eventually.”

Jason whirls on him, eyes blazing. “That’s not the point! You shouldn’t be alone in the first place! God, no wonder you’re always so—so—” He gestures wildly, searching for the word. “So calm about things that should not be calm!”

Dick sighs again, but there’s no humor in it this time. His hand lands gently on Jason’s shoulder, steadying him. “Trust me, I’ve had the same meltdown more times than I can count. Bruce too. But this is the routine now. Every few months, like clockwork, the Drakes pull this stunt. And every time, Bruce and I go to Raccoon and bring him home.”

Jason stares at him, horrified. “And you let this happen? You let it happen?”

“Tim likes it there, so it’s fine now,” Dick says softly. “Though legally, Bruce is Tim’s legal guardian. He has the authority to stop the Drakes from doing this stunt, but the one time we tried, they pulled up with a signed order from the judge that they bribed, overriding Bruce’s guardianship.”

Jason’s jaw clenches, his voice low and dangerous now. “If I ever see them, I swear—”

“Jay,” Dick cuts in firmly, giving him a pointed look. “Believe me, the line to wring their necks forms behind me. I’ve had it laminated and everything.”

Tim lets out a small sigh, finally daring to look up. His voice is quiet, resigned. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

That—more than anything—makes Jason’s fury twist into something sharp and protective. He crouches down so he’s eye-level with Tim, his expression fierce. “Don’t you ever say that again. You don’t get used to parents ditching you. You hear me? You’ve got us now. And if they pull this crap again—” His hand curls into a fist. “—they’re gonna have to answer to me.”

For the first time since the conversation began, Tim’s lips twitch into the faintest, tiniest smile. “You sound like Dick.”

Jason snorts, though his eyes are still burning. “Yeah, but I’ve got better hair.”

“Hey!” Dick protests from behind them, offended.

—

Raccoon City is quieter than Gotham, but not in a way Tim likes.

The quiet here feels suffocating, stretched thin over secrets that breathe in the walls. The Birkin house, especially, has that kind of silence—the kind where every tick of the clock sounds too loud, every floorboard creak feels like it belongs to something watching.

But tonight, Tim and Sherry has an excuse. A “sleepover.”

Sherry pitched it with wide eyes and a hopeful grin. Annette, harried and distracted, barely thought twice before waving them off with a muttered “Fine, but don’t stay up too late.” William didn’t even look up from his papers, murmuring something that might’ve been permission.

Which means the two of them are free.

Tim lies on Sherry’s bedroom floor, surrounded by sleeping bags and the façade of board games and popcorn bowls. He waits until the house settles into the deep stillness of late night before nudging her with his foot.

“You ready?” he whispers.

Sherry nods, blonde hair tumbling into her face. “Been ready since we planned this.”

They slip from the room, socks muffling their steps, flashlight beams darting in controlled flickers. Sherry leads the way down the hall—her house, her terrain—and Tim follows, mind already buzzing through possible escape routes if something goes wrong.

The office door looms at the end of the hall, familiar from her last attempt. Locked, as always.

Tim crouches, pulling a slim case from his hoodie pocket. Sherry smirks. “You brought tools?”

“Of course I did,” he whispers, already slotting a pick into the lock. “What kind of hacker-slash-detective would I be if I didn’t?”

The lock clicks open in under a minute. He pushes the door just enough for them to slip inside.

The office smells like chemicals and paper dust, the air heavy with secrets. William’s desk is stacked with files, binders, and scrawled notes that only a scientist could love.

Sherry flicks her flashlight low, sweeping across the pages. Tim hops onto the chair, rifling through the top layer of documents with surgical precision.

“Check the drawers,” he murmurs.

Sherry nods, crouching to tug one open. Her flashlight catches on typed labels: Test Subject Reports. Experimental Logs. Umbrella Internal Communications.

Her breath hitches. She flips one open, the paper whispering in the silence. Words blur past until—“Tim. Names. Here.”

He leans over, eyes scanning the page. Two names stand stark among the medical jargon: Jessica Trevor. Lisa Trevor.

Tim’s stomach dips. The formatting makes it clear—subjects, not colleagues. People reduced to case numbers.

Sherry’s brows knit, her whisper sharp. “Trevor… I’ve heard that before. My dad knows a Trevor. I think he used to visit the Arklay place. The Umbrella mansion in the Arklay mountains. I think he called it Spencer mansion?” She looks at Tim, eyes wide with sudden realization. “It’s connected.”

Tim flips the page, heart hammering. His flashlight catches on a block of text buried in dense jargon. Words like injection protocol and mutation markers. And then, underlined in William’s neat, clinical handwriting: successful adaptation—subject viability remains unstable.

A chill snakes down his spine. It’s proof. Not just theories, not just paranoia. Whoever Jessica and Lisa Trevor were… William experimented on them.

“They weren’t patients,” Tim whispers. “They were experiments.”

The words taste like ash.

A sound cuts through the air—footsteps on the stairs.

Sherry’s eyes go wide. She snaps the drawer shut, the slam too loud in the stillness. Tim yanks the file from the desk and slides it back into the pile, hissing, “Lights off!”

Darkness swallows the room as they dive under the desk, pressing close to the shadows. The footsteps grow louder, pause outside the door. The knob rattles—stays shut.

Then the steps retreat.

Tim counts to thirty in his head before daring to move. His chest aches from holding his breath.

Sherry clutches his sleeve, whispering, “We have to go.”

He nods, sliding the chair back into place and tugging her toward the door. They slip into the hall, shutting it softly behind them, and sprint back to her room as fast as socked feet allow.

—

Tim shuts the door quietly behind them, pressing his back against it like that will keep the entire house—and William Birkin himself—at bay. Sherry crawls into her bed, hugging her knees to her chest.

For a long beat, they just sit there in the dark. Their ears strain for footsteps, for voices, for any sound that means they’ve been caught. Nothing. Just the heavy quiet of a house full of secrets.

Then Sherry whispers, “You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

Tim shakes his head. His pulse is still racing, his brain sparking like static. “Nope.”

He digs into his backpack, pulling out his laptop. The screen flickers to life, casting the room in faint blue. Sherry leans closer, the glow painting her face pale.

“What are you doing?”

“Cross-checking.” Tim’s voice is low, clipped. His fingers are already flying over the keys. “If Jessica and Lisa Trevor are Umbrella subjects, there should be records—financial, personnel, experimental logs. Even if William keeps the details off the books, the names should appear somewhere in the system.”

Sherry tilts her head, watching the blur of code and windows. To her, it looks like nonsense—lines of commands, database shells, backdoors opening and closing like a magician’s trick. But she knows Tim well enough by now to understand that nonsense to her means clarity to him.

Minutes pass in silence, save for the rapid-fire clacking of keys. Tim digs through corporate files, umbrella sub-branches, personnel lists. Sherry watches his face tighten, his mouth flatten into a hard line.

“There’s nothing,” he mutters finally. “Nothing on Jessica Trevor. Nothing on Lisa Trevor. Not in payroll, not in personnel, not in any of the subsidiary files.”

Sherry frowns. “But we saw their names.”

“Oh, their names exist,” Tim says, tone edged. “I just can’t find them. Which means…” He spins the laptop toward her, showing a blanked-out section of an Umbrella internal report. Whole blocks of text are blacked out, like someone took a digital marker and scrubbed history clean.

Sherry leans forward. “Redacted?”

“Massively.” Tim’s voice is hushed, but the word lands heavy. “See? Look here—experiment logs jump from Subject 12 to Subject 15. No Subject 13, no Subject 14. Like they never existed.”

Sherry’s brows furrow. “But they did.”

Tim nods. “Exactly. That’s worse than erasure—it’s intentional removal. Umbrella didn’t just hide the Trevors. They deleted them. Paper trail’s probably all that’s left, and William’s office keeps those.”

Sherry bites her lip, curling deeper into her sleeping bag. “So… we weren’t just imagining it. They’re real. And my dad knows them.”

Tim doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick across the redacted gaps on his screen. There’s a sinking weight in his chest, the kind he’s only ever felt when something truly wrong clicks into place.

Finally, he shuts the laptop and stares at her. “Sherry, whatever your dad and Umbrella are doing… it’s not just bad. It’s monstrous.”

The room feels colder after he says it.

Sherry hugs her knees tighter, whispering, “Then we have to find out the rest.”

Tim nods, but his hand tightens on the laptop. He’s already thinking about next steps, already cataloging risks. His corkboard back in Gotham is filling faster than he thought it would.

—

The S.T.A.R.S. office hums with its usual late-afternoon rhythm—reports being typed, guns cleaned, coffee brewing far too strong. Marvin waves Bruce in without looking up, because by now everyone in the building knows the cadence of Bruce Wayne’s footsteps. He’s been here every few months for three years now, picking up his troublemaking son.

Dick follows at his side, casual, easy. And Jason—this being his first time to these Raccoon runs—strides in with his chin up like he’s daring anyone to test him.

Tim is already there, of course. He’s perched cross-legged on Jill’s desk, laptop open beside a half-eaten candy bar. The second he spots them, he lights up.

“Bruce! Dick! Jason!” He hops down, jogging over, his grin wide and unguarded.

Jason ruffles his hair on instinct, making Tim squawk and bat at his hand. “Missed you too, runt.”

Tim sticks his tongue out, but he’s still smiling. 

Jason’s smile fades as he notices the way the officers around the room glance at Tim—habitual, protective, subtle in a way that sets his teeth on edge. He knows the story now. He knows how often Tim gets left behind here, waiting days until Bruce comes back for him.

Jason’s jaw sets. He turns and marches straight toward who Dick briefed him to be Chris Redfield and Barry Burton.

Chris looks up, startled, a pen still in his hand. Barry raises an eyebrow.

“You two,” Jason says, stabbing a finger in their direction. “You’re the ones making sure my little brother’s safe when he’s stuck here, yeah?”

Barry blinks, caught between confusion and amusement. “Uh… yeah? Of course we do.”

Chris nods immediately. “Tim’s family here. We all look out for him.”

Jason studies them, narrowing his eyes like he’s measuring their worth. The entire room has gone quiet—Rebecca peeks over her paperwork, Forest pretends not to be listening, and Jill presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

Finally, Jason gives a sharp, satisfied nod. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Chris looks like someone just handed him a pop quiz. Barry lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Jay!” Tim hisses, mortified, tugging at his brother’s sleeve. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do,” Jason cuts him off, tone firm but not unkind. “Someone’s gotta make sure they know you’re not just some tagalong.”

Tim groans, hiding his face in his hands, but his ears are red, and when Jason nudges his shoulder, he leans into him without complaint.

Jill crouches slightly to Tim’s level, whispering with a grin, “There’s three of you now?”

Tim sighs like a tired old man. “…Please don’t remind me.”

Across the room, Dick is wheezing with laughter, nearly falling against a desk. “Oh my god, Jason, you actually squared up to Chris and Barry and gave them a shovel talk—”

Jason just shrugs. “They passed inspection. That’s what matters.”

Bruce, pinching the bridge of his nose, mutters under his breath about headaches multiplying.

And Tim, despite every bit of embarrassment, can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

—

The study feels unusually quiet tonight. The fire crackles, the shadows stretch long across the shelves, and Bruce sits behind his desk with his hands folded—not in the way he does when he’s Batman delivering a mission briefing, but in the rare way he does when he’s Bruce Wayne trying to be a father.

Tim perches on the edge of the chair opposite him, legs tucked up, his posture polite but wary. He knows that tone Bruce had used at dinner earlier—We’ll talk later. It always means something serious.

Bruce studies him for a long moment before speaking, voice low and even.

“Tim. Your next trip to Raccoon will likely fall in July.” He pauses, as if gauging Tim’s reaction. “That… means it’ll overlap with your birthday.”

Tim blinks. “Oh.” He tilts his head slightly, feigning casual surprise, unsure as to how he feels.

Bruce’s mouth tightens just a fraction. He doesn’t press the point. Instead, he leans forward slightly, his eyes steady. “This time, it’s going to be a little different. Dick and I have been called for an off-world mission. It’s unpredictable—could last weeks, maybe a month. We won’t be able to bring you back from Raccoon as quickly as usual.”

Tim keeps his expression neutral, though his pulse quickens. “So… I’d be there longer?”

Bruce nods. “Yes. Until Dick and I return. Jason will handle Gotham in our absence, with Alfred to guide him. Other allies will lend support if necessary.”

Tim lowers his gaze, lips pursed in thought. Outwardly, he plays the part Bruce expects—quiet, contemplative, the kind of boy who takes every decision seriously. He even lets a small frown crease his brow, as though he’s weighing the inconvenience of being left behind against the gravity of Bruce’s duty.

“…I guess that makes sense,” he says slowly. “If you’re both off-world, it’s safer for me to stay put until you’re back.”

“Exactly.” Bruce’s tone softens. “I wanted to ask you, not just tell you. You’re old enough to have a say in this.”

Tim glances up at him, managing a small, almost shy smile. “Then… yeah. I’ll be okay. I’ll stay.”

Bruce inclines his head, almost imperceptibly, but Tim sees the relief flicker there—the quiet gratitude that his youngest is compliant, that the conversation didn’t turn into resistance or arguments.

They talk a little longer about logistics, about Alfred’s check-ins and Jason’s responsibilities. Bruce eventually excuses him, telling him to get some rest.

Tim nods obediently, closes the door softly behind him, and makes his way down the hall.

Only when he’s alone in his room does he let the mask slip.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring out the window into the Gotham night, the weight of his calm agreement giving way to the rush underneath.

Weeks. Maybe a whole month.

An entire stretch of time where he isn’t limited to stolen hours in the Birkin household or brief bursts of investigation squeezed between fetch trips. He’ll have the space to be methodical, meticulous, to trace threads properly instead of figuring out how the small crumbs fit together. He’ll have time to help Sherry—not just comfort her in whispers, but really stand beside her as they dig into the shadows of her father’s work.

The thought is terrifying, yes. But more than that, it feels like… an opening. An opportunity.

Tim exhales slowly, almost a vow to himself.

He’ll make this count.

—

The Drakes’ car pulls up the long Wayne Manor driveway with the same detached punctuality it always does—engine humming, paint shining, trunk already open for luggage that’s barely been touched.

Tim stands just inside the front doors, backpack slung over his shoulder, but this time he’s carrying more than usual. Not just the carefully folded clothes Alfred packed for him, but the hidden notebooks tucked at the bottom, pages full of leads and fragments. Baggage of a different kind.

Bruce is there, stoic as always, though his eyes linger on Tim a little longer than usual. Jason leans against the banister, arms crossed tight, while Dick hovers nearby with the restless energy of someone who wants to smother his little brother in bubble wrap.

“You’ve got everything?” Dick asks for the third time.

Tim nods patiently. “Yes. Clothes, books, toothbrush, the usual.”

Jason squints at him like he doesn’t quite believe it. “And your emergency comm? You better not have left that behind.”

Tim sighs. “It’s in my pocket, Jay.” He pats it just to prove the point.

Jason seems only mildly reassured. He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Listen, Tim, if anybody—your parents, those Birkin people, whoever—tries anything, you punch them in the face. No hesitation.”

Dick, coming up on Tim’s other side, adds solemnly, “Yes. Preferably your parents first.”

“Dick!” Bruce’s voice is sharp, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“What?” Dick shrugs innocently. “Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Jason snorts, clapping Tim’s shoulder. “And you better call. Every day. No excuses. I want updates. Weather report, what you had for breakfast, if Birkin sneezed too loud—everything.”

“Jason—”

“I mean it.” His voice softens, though his grip doesn’t. “First time you’re gone this long. We’re not gonna just… not know.”

Tim swallows the lump forming in his throat. He nods once, firmly. “Okay. Every day.”

Bruce finally steps forward, resting a hand on Tim’s small shoulder. His presence is grounding, the way it always is. “I spoke with Chris. He’s offered his apartment once the Drakes leave. There’s a guest room waiting. He’d be happy to have you.”

That… settles something in Tim’s chest. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “That… helps.”

The car horn honks outside. A clipped, impatient sound.

Tim looks toward it, then back at his family. His family—because that’s what they are, no matter how much the Drakes detest it so.

Dick bends down suddenly, pulling him into a hug that’s more like a headlock. “Don’t grow up without me, short stack.”

Jason piles on, ruffling Tim’s hair. “Yeah, save some trouble for me too.”

Tim wriggles free, cheeks pink but eyes bright. “You guys are ridiculous. I’ll only be gone for a month at most.”

Bruce clears his throat, guiding Tim gently toward the door. “Stay safe. And remember, Tim—your safety comes first.”

Tim gives one last nod, then shoulders his bag and heads out into the waiting car.

As the doors close and the vehicle rolls down the drive, Jason mutters under his breath, “I still say we should’ve bugged his backpack.”

“Jason.”

“…What? Tell me you’re not thinking the same thing.”

Dick sighs, rubbing his face. “He’s gonna call every day. He promised.”

But even as they turn back inside, both brothers glance toward the driveway, watching until the car disappears from sight.

—

The apartment door opens with a quiet click, and Chris steps back to let Tim inside.

It’s a modest space—two bedrooms, a small living room, a kitchen tucked into a corner—but it feels lived in. The faint scent of coffee lingers, the blinds are half-drawn, and there’s a jacket draped carelessly over the back of the couch. Compared to the cold, polished halls of the guest house, it might as well be a sanctuary.

Tim sets his bag down by the door and takes a deep breath, shoulders loosening. No rush, no clipped goodbyes, no feeling like an afterthought. Just a place that feels alive.

Chris notices the ease in his posture and smiles. “Welcome to Casa Redfield. First rule: shoes off before you wreck my floor. Second rule: if you finish the last of the coffee, you put another pot on. And third…” He gestures toward the couch with a grin. “That’s yours whenever you want it. But the guest room’s already set up, if you’d rather have a real bed.”

“I’ll take the guest room,” Tim says, lips quirking upward. “But… I don’t mind reruns sometimes.”

“Smart kid,” Chris says approvingly, heading into the kitchen. “Hungry? I’ve got leftover pasta, or I can throw together some eggs.”

“Eggs,” Tim answers immediately, following him in like he’s already done it a hundred times. He glances around the small kitchen, noting the fridge covered with magnets and notes scribbled on post-its. “…Wait. You cook?”

Chris laughs at the suspicion in his tone. “What, you think I live on protein bars and instant noodles?”

Tim gives him a look.

“Okay, fine,” Chris admits, pulling a carton of eggs from the fridge. “I used to. But Claire threatened to move in and take over if I didn’t learn. So—here we are.”

Tim watches him crack eggs into a pan with surprising competence, leaning comfortably against the counter. The sizzling sound fills the kitchen, and it feels normal—so normal it makes him smile without thinking about it.

When Chris slides the plate across to him, Tim digs in without hesitation. “…This is good.”

Chris beams. “See? Told you. Don’t let your Alfred hear you say it, though. Man’s got standards.”

They eat side by side, conversation weaving in and out easily—Tim mentioning something funny Sherry said last week, Chris countering with an embarrassing story about Claire. It’s easy. Like they’ve always done this.

When the plates are cleared, Chris leads him down the hall. “C’mon. I’ll show you the guest room.”

It’s small but tidy. Fresh sheets, a desk in the corner, a stack of spare blankets folded neatly. Someone’s gone out of their way to make it welcoming.

Tim steps in, drops his bag by the desk, and turns back with a bright grin. “This is great.”

Chris leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, smile tugging at his lips. “Good. You’re welcome here, Tim. Anytime. Not just when your parents…” He stops himself, then tries again. “Not just when you need a place. Okay?”

Tim doesn’t hesitate. He nods firmly, eyes warm. “Okay.”

Chris clears his throat, pushing off the frame. “Get some rest. Tomorrow I’ll show you around the neighborhood, and we’ll stop by the precinct. Marvin already threatened to chew me out if I don’t bring you by.”

Tim laughs outright this time. “Sounds like him.”

Chris grins, softer now. “Yeah. And hey—happy early birthday, kid. We’ll make sure it’s a good one.”

Tim’s grin widens, and he ducks his head, suddenly shy despite himself. “…Thanks.”

Later, as the hum of the TV drifts down the hall, Tim unpacks just enough—his notebooks slide neatly into the desk drawer, his clothes folded into the dresser. But tonight, he doesn’t touch the one labeled Birkin / Umbrella.

Because for the first time in a long while, he feels like he can just… breathe.

—

July 19 arrives in Racoon City with sunshine, the faint hum of cicadas, and a boy who wakes up in Chris Redfield’s guest room feeling both giddy and strangely solemn.

Tim Drake-Wayne is twelve years old today.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, trying the number on his tongue—twelve. It sounds older, important somehow. He should feel taller, sharper, more… something. But when he drags himself up, hair sticking out in about a dozen directions, he still feels like Tim. Just Tim.

Chris is waiting for him in the kitchen, sipping coffee and pretending very badly that nothing is unusual. “Morning, birthday boy,” he says cheerfully, pushing a plate of toast toward him.

Tim squints suspiciously. “You’re chipper. That’s suspicious.”

Chris raises his eyebrows in mock offense. “What, I can’t be a good roommate without raising alarms?”

“You’ve never been a morning person,” Tim counters, biting into the toast anyway.

Chris just laughs and ruffles his hair. “C’mon, I’ve got plans. We’ll hit the arcade, maybe the bookstore, then grab lunch. Sound good?”

Tim perks up despite himself. “Yeah. But don’t you have work today?”

“Day off,” Chris says smoothly. Too smoothly.

Tim narrows his eyes. “The entire Alpha and Bravo team’s off too, but they couldn’t hang out because they’re still busy for some reason. Marvin’s been ‘busy with paperwork.’ Even Sherry said she couldn’t sneak out of the house. It’s like everyone disappeared.”

Chris nearly chokes on his coffee. “They’ve all got their own lives, kiddo. Not everyone’s orbiting around you.”

Tim tilts his head, thoughtful. “That sounds rehearsed.”

Chris grins like a man trying to keep a lid on a very big secret. “Eat your breakfast, Detective Drake.”

—

The day passes in deliberate distraction.

At the arcade, Chris insists on challenging him at racing games, only to crash spectacularly in every round. (“You’re cheating!” “You just can’t drive, old man.”) At the bookstore, he nudges Tim toward the science section and pretends not to notice how long the kid lingers over criminology texts and coding manuals. Lunch is burgers, fries, and Chris deliberately drawing out every conversation so time stretches just enough.

By the time the sun dips low, Chris finally steers them toward the apartment. Tim notices the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he checks his watch twice.

Suspicion burns hotter. “Chris…” Tim starts carefully, “you’re acting weird.”

“Me? Nah.” Chris fumbles for his keys. “I’m just… tired. Long day.”

“…You’re terrible at lying.”

“Shut up, kid,” Chris mutters, unlocking the door.

Tim steps inside—

And the world erupts.

“SURPRISE!”

The living room is packed. Jill with a camera, Barry balancing a cake box in his hands, Rebecca waving streamers, Joseph, Enrico, Kenneth, Forest, Richard, Brad—all of them crammed in and grinning. Marvin leans against the wall, arms crossed but eyes warm. And right in the middle, bouncing with excitement, is Sherry Birkin, clutching a gift bag that’s almost as tall as she is.

Tim freezes, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Sherry bolts forward first. “Happy birthday, Timmy!” she squeals, nearly bowling him over with a hug.

Behind her, Rebecca beams. “You didn’t think we’d forget your twelfth birthday, did you?”

Barry chuckles, setting the cake box on the table. “Kid, you’ve practically got a whole precinct wrapped around your finger. No chance in hell we’d miss this.”

Tim blinks rapidly, his throat tightening. “I… I thought everyone was busy.”

“That was the idea,” Jill says with a wicked grin. “We had to keep you out of the apartment while we set up. Chris nearly blew it, though.”

“Hey!” Chris protests, but his grin gives him away.

The room fills with laughter, and just like that, the tension breaks.

—

The party is chaotic in the best way.

Rebecca drapes a paper crown on Tim’s head and refuses to let him take it off. Jill organizes an impromptu game of charades, which ends in Barry dramatically acting out a helicopter crash while Brad yells, “Too soon, Jill! Too soon!” Sherry and Tim team up to destroy everyone at Pictionary, their guesses so fast it’s practically telepathy.

Marvin, true to form, sits back and keeps an eye on things, but even he cracks a smile when Tim accidentally smears frosting on Chris’ nose.

When the cake comes out—chocolate, of course, with “Happy Birthday Tim” scrawled across it in slightly lopsided icing—everyone sings. Loudly. Off-key. Sherry is practically screaming the words, Jill’s laughing through half of it, and Chris claps him on the back so hard Tim nearly faceplants into the candles.

“Make a wish, kiddo,” Barry says warmly.

Tim closes his eyes.

He doesn’t wish for answers to the mysteries he and Sherry are digging into. He doesn’t wish for his parents to suddenly remember how to be parents.

He wishes for this. This warmth, this laughter, this family that isn’t blood but chose him anyway.

He blows out the candles, and the cheer that follows is so loud it rattles the apartment walls.

—

Later, after presents are opened (a multitool from Barry, a bright-colored scarf from Jill, Rebecca’s carefully chosen medical kit, Marvin’s sleek fountain pen, Sherry’s hand-knit gloves, and a new bo staff from Chris that makes Tim’s eyes go wide), the party winds down. People drift out one by one, leaving only Chris, Sherry, and Tim in the soft glow of fairy lights strung across the living room.

Sherry curls up against Tim’s side, yawning. “Told you we didn’t forget.”

Tim grins, cheeks still aching from how much he’s smiled tonight. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Best birthday ever.”

Chris, watching them from the kitchen with a beer in hand, feels his chest tighten—but in a good way. Like maybe, just maybe, this kid really does have a home here, too.

—

The party has finally wound down. Streamers sag, cake plates are stacked on Chris’ counter, and Sherry’s gift bag is still sitting unopened on the coffee table. Chris is humming in the kitchen, clattering dishes, while Tim pulls his personal laptop from his backpack and curls up on the couch.

The screen lights up, signal flickering before stabilizing into a split frame.

On the left: Alfred in his study back at the manor, posture dignified but eyes warm. Jason leans half in frame beside him, clearly not willing to sit still, chin resting on his hand as he slouches in the chair.

On the right: Bruce and Dick in some kind of dimly lit spacecraft cabin, the hum of engines faint in the background. Bruce sits steady and composed, while Dick waves with both hands, grin nearly splitting his face in two.

“Happy birthday, baby bird!” Dick shouts first, waving so hard Bruce has to steady the camera.

Jason winces at the volume. “Christ, Dickie, dial it down.”

Tim laughs, adjusting the angle so they can all see him. “Hi, guys.” His cheeks are still flushed from the surprise earlier. “I, uh… I had a party.”

“A party?” Jason perks up immediately. “With cake?”

Tim nods, grinning. “Yeah. Everyone was there—S.T.A.R.S., Marvin, and Sherry. Chris distracted me all day so they could set it up. Best birthday ever.”

Dick covers his mouth like he’s about to cry. “Oh, that’s perfect. That’s perfect. My baby brother was surrounded by friends on his big day.”

Jason cuts in, smirking. “So what’d they give you? Don’t tell me you only got socks.”

Tim ducks out of frame, then reappears holding up the polished collapsible staff Chris gifted him. His grin is sheepish but proud. “This.”

Jason whistles. “Not bad, runt. Not bad at all.” He shoots Alfred a look. “Better than that wool scarf you got me for my birthday.”

Alfred arches a brow. “A pity you lack the refinement to appreciate craftsmanship, Master Jason.”

That earns a laugh from Tim, and even Dick muffles a chuckle.

Bruce clears his throat, steady as always. “It’s appropriate training equipment. I already spoke with Chris. I approve.”

Jason groans. “Of course you already knew. You probably signed off on it.”

Tim hugs the staff against his chest. “It’s… really cool.” His voice dips soft, reverent, the way he rarely lets it.

Bruce’s expression gentles. “I’m glad, Tim. Happy birthday, son.”

Tim swallows, ducking his head quickly. “Thanks, dad.”

Dick leans closer to the camera, eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ll get my gift when you’re back in Gotham. No spoilers.”

Jason huffs. “It’s probably glitter and spandex. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Jason!” Dick sputters, Bruce pinching the bridge of his nose beside him.

Tim laughs so hard he almost drops the laptop.

When it settles, Jason’s tone softens. “Hey, just… remember to call us tomorrow, okay? Daily updates. That was the deal.”

“And the day after that,” Dick adds, wagging a finger through the grainy feed.

Tim rolls his eyes but smiles. “I promise. You’ll get sick of me calling.”

“Impossible,” Alfred says gently, gaze steady on Tim. “Your voice will always be welcome here.”

Something in Tim’s chest warms at that. For a moment, it’s quiet—one that feels safe, stretched across the distance between Gotham, space, and Raccoon City.

From the kitchen, Chris calls out, “Tim! You’re not worming out of dish duty, birthday boy!”

Jason immediately smirks. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

Dick leans into frame, grinning. “Better go help your new big brother before he grounds you.”

Bruce just gives a small, approving nod. “Go on. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Tim closes his laptop gently, heart full. For once, the world feels smaller—like no matter how far apart they all are, he isn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The RPD is louder than usual. Phones ring, typewriters chatter, boots click against tile, but beneath all that noise hums something heavier—an undercurrent that even a kid could notice.

And Tim does notice.

For months now, the S.T.A.R.S. unit has been different. They smile for him, sure—they always do, he’s their “kid mascot,” their “little brother”—but the smiles never last long. Sometimes Chris gets quiet in the middle of a joke, gaze turning sharp. Jill frowns at her desk more often than she laughs. Rebecca wrings her hands, pretending she’s just busy with reports, but her nervous energy hums like a live wire. Barry, even with his warm fatherly presence, can’t quite mask the weight behind his eyes.

Tim sees it at his birthday party, too. Streamers, cake, jokes flying back and forth—but then, in the corner of his vision, he notices Enrico and Richard break off from the group, voices low and urgent. Joseph glances at them, then at the door, before returning to his drink. Forest hovers near a window like he’s keeping watch.

Everyone acts normal. But nothing about it feels normal.

Tim files it away. That’s what he does best: notice. Catalog. Connect.

And today, finally, his patience pays off.

He’s loitering near the front desk with his ever-present backpack and laptop when he hears it. One of Marvin’s patrol officers, talking too loud in the hallway as he shrugs into his jacket, “—yeah, the S.T.A.R.S. are holed up in the briefing room today. Something about those weird murders up in the Arklay Mountains.”

Tim’s breath hitches. Arklay.

The name is a puzzle piece snapping into place. The Trevors—Sherry remembered her dad talking about them. And Tim saw it himself, that half-hidden file on William’s desk, whispering of experiments and cruelty. “Trevor” scrawled in the margins like a ghost. And the Arklay Mountains—Umbrella’s land, its secrets buried in the forested ridges above the city.

He doesn’t hesitate. He can’t.

Because if the S.T.A.R.S. are investigating Arklay, then the pieces might finally start fitting together.

Tim moves. Quietly, casually, because the last thing he wants is Marvin’s sharp eyes on him. He ducks down the side hallway, slipping through a supply closet door. He knows this building like a second home by now, every vent and crawlspace catalogued in his brain. He shoulders his backpack tighter and climbs, finding the maintenance ladder that leads to the vents above the briefing room.

Tim presses himself against the cramped metal of the vents, knees tucked in tight, his back aching against the cold steel. Every sound vibrates through the ductwork—the hum of the lights, the shuffle of boots on the linoleum floor below. He moves inch by inch until the slats open above the S.T.A.R.S. conference room, giving him a perfect—if uncomfortable—view.

One by one, they arrive.

Chris, jaw set tight, arms crossed. Jill, sharp-eyed, expression grim. Barry, shoulders heavy, muttering something to Enrico. Richard, Brad, Joseph, Forest, Kenneth—all of them wear the same mask of tension. Even Rebecca, usually so eager to greet him, looks older than her years as she carries a stack of papers to the table.

The air feels electric, charged with something that’s more than just nerves. This isn’t a normal case.

Tim’s pulse hammers. This is it. This is the big one.

He presses his cheek to the metal, straining to hear. He needs details—any detail—that will connect Umbrella, the Birkins, the Trevors. His phone is already out, screen dimmed, voice recorder running. Every word will be for him and Sherry later. He’ll need her insight. Need someone else to confirm that what he’s hearing is real.

The last to arrive is Wesker. Sunglasses gleaming, coat immaculate, stride precise as if the tension in the room doesn’t touch him. He carries himself like a man already in control of everything that’s about to happen.

“Good evening, S.T.A.R.S.,” Wesker says smoothly, voice carrying across the room. “Let’s get to business.”

The room stills.

“You’ve all read the headlines. The press calls it the ‘cannibal murders,’ but we are here to examine the facts.” His voice is steady, smooth, commanding.

He taps the first page, and Chris flips it open. Grainy photos spill out across the table. The first is labeled: May 27th, 1998.

“A married couple hiking near the Arklay Mountains. Found brutally murdered. Cause of death: extreme blood loss from multiple lacerations. Tissue missing, as if torn away.”

Rebecca’s pen scratches faintly, her brow furrowed. Barry mutters something about animals, but Wesker cuts smoothly across him.

“June 16th.” He flips to the next set of images. “Four mutilated corpses discovered just outside Raccoon City limits. Two men, two women. Same injuries. Bites. Missing organs.”

Jill reads the typed note aloud, her voice clipped. “Victims were attacked by a group—witnesses estimate at least ten assailants. Reports claim they ‘appeared to be eating the flesh of the dead.’”

Chris grimaces. “Ten assailants? Feeding?”

“That’s the official eyewitness statement,” Wesker says flatly. “As unusual as it sounds, we cannot ignore it.”

Tim presses his phone closer to the vent slats, recording every syllable. He feels his stomach twist.

“July 9th,” Wesker continues, turning another page. His gloved finger taps the headline. “At least twenty people have now been reported missing in the Arklay Mountains. Citizens, hikers, families. The local police are overwhelmed and public panic is rising. Which brings us to us—S.T.A.R.S.”

Silence grips the room. The weight of the numbers hangs heavy.

Finally Enrico speaks, his voice grim. “So what are you suggesting? That we’re dealing with a gang? A cult?”

“That is the most likely explanation,” Wesker says, calm as ever. “A third-party group operating in the mountains. Organized. Capable of butchery and abduction without detection.”

Chris slams the folder shut. “You’re telling me a group of people are out there tearing families apart with their bare teeth? That’s your theory?”

Barry leans forward. “Hell of a cult if they can do all that and vanish without a trace.”

Wesker’s sunglasses glint under the lights. “Regardless of whether you believe it, the evidence suggests coordination. And we will treat it as such.”

Jill folds her arms, voice edged. “And what if it isn’t a cult? What if it’s something worse?”

That earns her a faint smile from Wesker, gone too fast to pin down.

“Tomorrow evening,” Wesker says, tone final, “Bravo Team will be deployed into the Arklay Mountains. Your orders are reconnaissance: confirm the location of these killings, investigate possible hideouts, identify the perpetrators. Alpha Team will remain on standby for extraction and support.”

Rebecca stiffens. “Bravo… alone?”

“Only for the initial sweep,” Wesker replies smoothly. “You are trained professionals. You will confirm whether this group exists and report back. Alpha will act once we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Feels like we’re being sent in as bait,” Richard mutters.

“Lambs to the slaughter,” Barry adds under his breath.

Wesker’s voice cuts sharp and final, “Lambs with teeth. Remember who you are. S.T.A.R.S. handles what no one else can.”

The room falls silent again. Uneasy. Heavy.

Tim doesn’t move. He stays pressed against the vent, the recorder still running, his pulse thudding in his ears. He knows enough now to feel the pit forming in his stomach: Bravo Team is being sent into the middle of something they won’t understand until it’s too late.

And deep down, Tim suspects Wesker knows that, too.

He swallows hard, shutting off the recording at last. Every detail matters—the dates, the murders, the missing people, the whispers of cannibal cults. He’ll play it back for Sherry tonight. They’ll piece it together.

Because if Bravo Team goes in tomorrow… someone has to be ready for what’s waiting in the Arklay mountains.

—

Tim waits until the scrape of chairs signals the meeting’s end. The folders snap shut, boots thud against linoleum, and one by one, the S.T.A.R.S. members file out. Their voices trail after them—Chris muttering to Jill, Enrico quietly steadying Rebecca, Barry growling under his breath as he collects his weapon case.

Tim shifts slightly in the vent, careful not to make the duct groan. His recorder is already off, tucked back into his pocket, but his ears are still tuned sharp. He’s learned that the most important things are often said after the official meeting ends.

And tonight is no exception.

Only two remain in the room—Barry Burton, solid as a wall, his broad shoulders hunched as he lingers by the table, and Wesker, who hasn’t moved from the head of it.

Barry’s voice is low, frustrated. “You sure about this, Wesker? Sending Bravo out there first? You saw Rebecca’s face—hell, you saw all their faces. They’re not ready for—”

“—for the truth?” Wesker cuts in smoothly. He’s calm, too calm, hands clasped behind his back. His sunglasses catch the overhead light, obscuring his eyes. “This is not about readiness, Barry. It’s about necessity.”

Barry exhales hard through his nose, running a hand down his beard. “Doesn’t feel right.”

There’s a pause. And then Wesker’s voice lowers, silk wrapping steel.

“Remember what I’ve said.”

The words hang in the air, deliberate. Heavy. Not a reminder—an order. A warning. A threat.

Barry goes still. His jaw works, fists clenching at his sides, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods once, sharp, like a man who doesn’t have the luxury to refuse.

“Yeah,” Barry mutters, voice gravel-rough. “I remember.”

Tim’s breath catches. He doesn’t understand it all—not yet—but he knows enough. Something’s off. Something’s wrong. Barry’s too loyal, too good of a man to sound this… cornered. And Wesker—well, he doesn’t sound like a commander worried about his people. He sounds like someone moving pieces on a board, indifferent to which ones break.

The silence stretches long and uneasy. Then Wesker gathers the files into a neat stack, every motion precise. Barry heads for the door without another word. His boots echo in the hall, fading away.

Finally, Wesker’s alone. For a second, Tim thinks he’ll just leave, but instead, the captain lingers at the table, one gloved hand resting lightly on the dossiers of the dead.

And then, almost too quiet for Tim to catch, Wesker exhales a single, amused chuckle.

That’s when Tim realizes his heart is hammering.

He presses himself flat against the duct, biting his lip, waiting—praying—that Wesker won’t look up. Won’t sense him in the vents. Won’t hear the frantic beat of his heart trying to solve a puzzle that might be too big even for him.

When Wesker finally strides out of the room, the sound of his boots sharp and sure, Tim doesn’t move. Not yet. He waits until the building hums with silence again before daring to breathe.

He’s got a recording. He’s got dates. He’s got a new piece to the puzzle. But more than that, he’s got confirmation of something he’s only suspected before: Wesker isn’t telling the truth. Not to S.T.A.R.S., not to Barry, and definitely not to the city.

And that makes him dangerous.

—

Tim’s sneakers squeak faintly on the cracked pavement as he jogs up the narrow stairwell to Chris' apartment. It’s late—later than he’d planned—but Sherry had insisted on squeezing every last minute out of their “study session.” Which really meant pushing papers across her bedroom floor, crouched side by side with flashlights as they tried to weave the Arklay murders into their messy web of theories.

His backpack is heavier than usual. Too heavy. He’s hyper-aware of it, the weight digging into his shoulder like a brand, but he keeps his expression calm when he unlocks the door with his spare key.

The apartment is dimly lit, warm in a way that feels lived in. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mingled with faint traces of gun oil. Chris' brand of comfort. Everything in here has a place, from the neatly stacked magazines to the spotless kitchen counter. Tim has always liked that.

Chris is on the couch, wiping down his pistol with the same care someone else might give a prized car. He glances up as Tim steps inside, arching a brow.

“You’re back later than usual. Thought I’d have to send Barry out with a search party.”

Tim shrugs, dropping his jacket over the armchair and willing his heartbeat to calm. “Sherry and I lost track of time. Papers and… puzzles.”

Chris smirks faintly at that, setting his pistol aside. “Figures. You two always have your heads buried in something. Hope it’s not getting you into trouble.”

Tim laughs—light, easy, practiced. “Not yet.”

He slips his backpack down next to his chair. His hand lingers on the strap for a moment too long before pulling away. Inside is William Birkin’s laptop, tucked carefully beneath his notebooks. Sherry’s words from earlier still echo in his head like a siren:

“Dad’s gone for the week. His laptop’s still in his office and Mom doesn’t go in there when he’s gone. No one will notice if it’s missing.”

Tim hadn’t needed more than that. Opportunity. He hadn’t hesitated.

Chris doesn’t notice anything amiss. He stretches, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the day. “Got a mission tomorrow,” he says, voice casual but lined with fatigue. “Can’t say how long it’ll run. You’re free to stay here if you want, or Marvin said he’d be happy to have you hang around the station.”

Tim perks up just enough to sell it. “Cool. I’ll figure it out.”

“Good,” Chris gives him a pointed look. “And don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, okay?”

Tim grins, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The conversation shifts to lighter things—Chris muttering about supply runs, Tim nodding along. But his mind is already racing, darting ahead to tomorrow. To the hours he’ll have alone, uninterrupted, with William’s laptop. The dragon’s hoard. The secrets that could connect Umbrella, the Trevors, the Arklay murders—all of it.

Chris disappears into the kitchen for coffee, muttering about how the S.T.A.R.S. office has the worst brand on earth. Tim sits at the table, one hand resting casually over his backpack as if he’s just tired, but really it’s to feel the outline of the laptop beneath the canvas.

He forces himself to breathe evenly, to not look suspicious. To not tip Chris off.

Tomorrow, Chris will be gone. Tomorrow, the apartment will be quiet.

And tomorrow, Tim Drake will start peeling back the layers of William Birkin’s secrets—alone.

Whatever he finds, he knows it won’t just change the game. It’ll blow it wide open.

—

The helicopter cuts through the night like a black blade, its rotors chopping the summer air into pieces. Rebecca presses her headset tighter against her ears, though it does nothing to dull the constant thrum rattling her bones. The sky outside is pitch-dark, heavy clouds rolling like smoke across the mountains. Rain lashes against the glass of the cockpit, each droplet illuminated for a brief second by the flare of lightning in the distance.

The medic keeps her spine straight in her seat, though her fingers curl nervously around the strap of her harness. This is starting to feel like this is going to be her last mission as a S.T.A.R.S. officer, and she feels every ounce of it pressing down on her chest.

Across from her, Enrico sits calm and collected, his expression grim but controlled. Forest leans back beside him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he watches the storm churn outside. Richard fusses with his equipment, checking his radio pack for what must be the third time since they lifted off. Edward, quiet and composed, sits by the window, his gaze sweeping the forest floor far below.

Lightning forks across the sky again, followed by a crack of thunder that makes the helicopter shudder. Rebecca grips her harness tighter.

“Relax, Chambers,” Forest says with a half-smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just weather. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Before she can answer, the radio crackles to life. “Bravo Team, this is Dispatch. You are approaching the drop point. Prepare for descent.”

Enrico signals to the pilot, then looks back at his team. His gaze lingers on Rebecca for a fraction longer than the others. “Stay sharp. The mountains have been crawling with strange activity. Whatever is happening down there, we need to know.”

The helicopter banks, descending lower through the storm. Rebecca feels the shift in her stomach, a lurching weightlessness that makes her grit her teeth. Trees loom closer, their jagged tops swaying violently in the wind.

Then, without warning, the helicopter careens through the storm like a wounded bird, blades screaming as lightning cracks across the clouds. The rain hammers against the fuselage in relentless sheets, and the forest below looks less like land and more like a sea of writhing black.

Rebecca’s stomach lurches as the craft jerks violently to one side. Alarms wail inside the cabin—red lights flashing against faces gone pale. She clutches the safety harness so hard her knuckles ache.

“Engine’s gone!” Kevin Dooley shouts over the roar, his hands gripping the flight controls with white-knuckled desperation. Sweat streaks down his temple despite the cold. “Hold on—we’re going down!”

The rotor sputters. The tail spins.

For one weightless moment, the world tilts.

Then the forest rises up to meet them.

The crash doesn’t come in one violent strike—it comes in waves. Branches smash against the windshield, glass spiderwebs in a scream of breaking light, and the impact tosses Rebecca forward into her harness. Her breath catches. Her vision explodes in color.

Then—silence.

The rotors wind down with a sickening whine. Sparks leap from the panel beside Kevin’s seat. Smoke curls up like thin ghosts through the air, stinging Rebecca’s eyes.

She coughs once, twice, blinking rapidly. Everything rings.

Then she realizes—they’re alive.

The helicopter landed upright by some miracle, and the main body remains mostly intact. The forest presses close around them—dark, suffocating, dripping. A smell of wet earth and burning fuel fills the air.

“Everyone okay?” Enrico’s voice cuts through the haze, rough but steady.

Rebecca blinks again, forcing the world into focus. “Y-Yeah,” she manages. Her throat’s raw. “I’m okay.”

Beside her, Edward groans and unbuckles his seatbelt, wincing. “Still breathing. That counts for something.”

Forest mutters something sarcastic under his breath, patting down his rifle to check for damage. “Hell of a landing, Kevin.”

“Wouldn’t call it a landing,” Kevin mutters back, jaw tight as he flicks switches across the control panel. The engine sputters weakly in response, coughing like a dying animal. “More like a controlled fall.”

Enrico looks out through the cracked window. “We can’t stay here. The crash’ll draw attention—noise like that carries for miles.”

Rebecca nods automatically, though her head’s still swimming. The forest outside hums with the restless drone of insects. In the distance, thunder rolls again, deep and heavy.

Kevin kicks open the side door with a grunt, metal groaning under his boot. Rain rushes in immediately—cold and alive. It slicks his face as he leans halfway out, scanning the treeline. The storm swallows the sound of his voice when he turns back.

“The tail rotor’s completely shot,” he says. “If I can get the main engine to respond, we might still have comms. I’ll stay and try to get her running again.”

Enrico frowns. “That’s a risk.”

Kevin glances back with a small, crooked grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s what I signed up for, Captain.”

Rebecca’s heart stutters. “Kevin—”

He turns toward her, his expression softening just a little. “Don’t worry, Rebecca. I’ll catch up.”

She opens her mouth, but the words stick. There’s rain dripping down her face, maybe tears, maybe not. In the dim glow of the helicopter’s emergency lights, she looks far younger than she feels.

Enrico moves to usher the team out. “Let’s move, people. We’ve got a train that reportedly stalled nearby. That’s our lead.”

Rebecca hesitates only a second longer. She looks at Kevin—their pilot, her friend—and raises a trembling hand. Her glove’s streaked with soot.

She gives him a thumbs-up.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to that gesture—the quiet courage behind it, the unspoken thank you.

Kevin huffs out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-exhale, and raises his hand in return, giving her a crisp salute. His eyes glint with something fiercely protective—like he’s trying to memorize her face in case this really is goodbye. Through the roar of thunder and wind, Kevin’s silhouette remains inside the damaged helicopter—small against the torn cockpit window, shoulders hunched over the controls. He pulls his jacket tighter and goes back to work, sparks flickering around him like fireflies.

Then the door slams shut.

—

Rain lashes through the canopy as the Bravo Team pushes deeper into the forest, their flashlights slicing through the fog like knives. The downpour hasn’t let up since the crash—each drop seems to drum a war rhythm against Rebecca’s helmet. Her boots sink into the mud with every step, water splashing high on her legs. The world smells like wet moss, oil, and something faintly metallic.

Enrico trudges forward, flashlight sweeping across the uneven terrain. “Richard, try the radio again,” he orders, voice sharp to be heard over the storm. “Get dispatch or the Alpha Team if you can.”

Richard nods and pulls the radio from his pack, flicking switches and adjusting the antenna. Static crackles. For a moment, Rebecca’s heart lifts—but then the only reply is a dull hiss.

“Signal’s busted, Captain!” Richard calls out, frustrated. “Too much interference. We’re not reaching anyone.”

Enrico mutters a quiet curse under his breath. “Damn it. Alright—” he exhales through his nose, scanning the darkness ahead, “—check the current position and investigate the surrounding area. Stay sharp. Something’s not right here.”

The five move forward, weapons drawn, flashlights darting between trees and shadows. The storm muffles the forest’s usual life—no crickets, no owls, no wind, only the rain and the squelch of boots. Rebecca tries not to think about what that means.

Her beam catches on something ahead.

“Captain!” she gasps, her voice trembling. The light trembles in her hand. “Look!”

Enrico hurries forward, squinting. “What is it?”

She points ahead, and the others follow the line of her flashlight.

It’s an overturned military transport truck.

The vehicle lies on its side, one tire still spinning weakly. The windshield is shattered, the metal hull dented inward like something hit it—or like it rolled and didn’t stop. Mud coats the sides, streaked with dark stains that the rain can’t wash away.

Edward whistles low under his breath. “What the hell…”

As Enrico approaches, he angles his light toward the ground. A beam of white cuts through the rain—and hits a boot. Then a hand. Then the unmistakable outline of a soldier sprawled lifeless in the mud.

Rebecca’s stomach lurches. “Oh my God—”

More bodies come into view as the team spreads out, all dressed in military transport uniforms. Helmets knocked off. Eyes open, staring at nothing. Their faces look pale even in the dim light—blood drained, flesh cold.

Rebecca clamps a gloved hand over her mouth, trying not to gag.

The flashlight flickers over the side of the truck, and something thick slides down the metal—slow, deliberate.

A ribbon of translucent slime oozes from a bullet hole, trailing downward like a slug’s path. It glistens in the light.

“Captain…” Rebecca’s voice cracks as she calls again, louder this time. “Captain!”

Enrico turns, face grim. “Hmm? What happened?”

She kneels by a half-open metal case lying beside one of the fallen soldiers. It’s military issue, battered but intact, and the rain has plastered a sheaf of papers to the inside. Rebecca peels one free, scanning the water-stained words.

“It’s a… court order,” she reads, voice faint at first, then steadier as the others crowd closer.

Court Order for Transportation

1598A-7635

 

Prisoner Name: Billy Coen

ID Number: D-1036

Former Second Lieutenant

Marine Corps

 

Age: 26

Height: 5ft. 9in.

Weight: 163lbs.

Transfer Destination: Regarthon Base

 

Convicted of first degree murder. Court-martialed and sentenced to death by the 0703rd military tribunal. Sentence to be carried out upon arrival.

 

Samuel Regan,

Commander,

Dunell Marine Base

Her breath trembles as she finishes, eyes flicking to Enrico.

Edward steps closer, reaching to take the memo from her gloved hand. His jaw tightens as he reads it for himself. “Those poor soldiers,” he mutters, voice thick with disgust. “They were good men just doing their jobs, and that scum murdered them and escaped!”

He spits the last word like venom. The rain streaks down his face, disguising the emotion gathering in his eyes.

Enrico steps forward and snatches the memo from Edward’s hand. His expression is iron, but his shoulders carry the weight of command. He looks once more at the overturned truck, at the dead men lying in the mud, then back at his team.

“Alright, everyone!” His voice cuts sharply through the downpour. “Let’s separate and survey the area. Our friend here is brutal and ruthless—keep your guard up!”

The team nods and moves out, flashlights scattering like stars in the dark.

Rebecca lingers a moment longer, gaze fixed on the slime still dripping from the truck’s hull. She doesn’t understand what she’s looking at, but every instinct in her body screams that something is wrong—unnatural.

The rain falls harder.

She takes one last look at the soldiers lying face-down in the mud before standing to follow Edward into the trees, her heart pounding in her throat.

Behind her, the slime gleams faintly in the flashlight’s dying glow—pale, viscous, alive.

And deep in the forest ahead, something moves.

Something breathes.

—

The storm hasn’t let up. It lashes through the forest with a violence that makes even seasoned operatives uneasy. The air is damp and heavy, filled with the earthy stink of mud and pine.

Rebecca adjusts the strap of her medical pack, her boots squelching through mud as rain sheets down through the trees. She presses forward through the undergrowth, her Beretta clutched close to her chest, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. Lightning slashes across the night sky, and for a moment the canopy lights up like skeletal fingers clawing against the storm.

She tries not to shiver. Enrico’s voice echoes in her head, “Stay sharp. We split up, and cover more ground.”

That was over an hour ago.

Rebecca pushes through another wall of dripping branches—and freezes.

Steel gleams in the flash of lightning. Not a truck, not wreckage—something larger. The tracks are half-buried by moss and pine needles, but the dark shape that sits upon them is unmistakable.

She steps closer, eyes widening. A train.

Rebecca breathes out, fog clouding in the cold air. “What… is this doing here?”

The Ecliptic Express looms before her, sleek and imposing, its windows black as though the forest itself swallowed the light. It sits silent on its tracks, rain streaking down its windows. Its headlights are dead, but faint light flickers inside the carriages, as though people were still inside. Rebecca swallows. Her radio hisses, but she hesitates to call it in. Something about the sight of the train feels wrong.

She climbs the steps into the first car. The door closes behind her with a hiss.

The air inside is still—too still. The dining car is pristine yet eerie—spreading out in rich velvet and crystal chandeliers. Silverware glitters faintly in the dim light, as though dinner was set and abandoned in the middle of some elegant party. But the silence is suffocating.

Her boots sink into plush carpet. Then her stomach knots—blood streaks along the seatbacks, smeared across the wood. A smear of blood across one of the seats. Another near the doorframe.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Oh God…”

Movement.

A man slumped against a window stirs. His head jerks with a sickening crack, clouded eyes snapping open. His lips peel back in a groan, low and guttural.

“T-this is officer Rebecca Chambers from S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team. Please identify yourself!”

He rises, stiff and wrong, and another figure follows from the shadows, and another—half a dozen passengers in fine coats and dresses, their skin pale, rotting, eyes vacant. They walk with the same horrible stiffness, their faces ashen, their mouths hanging open in low groans.

Rebecca staggers back, a fear so primal it settles heavily into her chest, fumbling for her Beretta. “S-Sir? Stay where you are!”

No… this isn’t real.

Her hand shakes as she raises her weapon. “I said stop!”

The nearest lunges. She screams, squeezes the trigger. The shot tears into its chest. It doesn’t stop. She fires again, again, panic drowning out training. Only when her bullet tears through its head does it collapse.

But the others shamble closer, groaning. Too many.

Rebecca bolts, slamming through the connecting door into the next car. Rain batters against the windows, smearing long streaks of water across the glass as the train screeches through the darkness. The lights overhead flicker weakly, casting the narrow corridor in flashes of white and shadow.

Rebecca runs.

Her breath tears out of her chest in short, ragged bursts as she sprints down the aisle, dodging the limp hands that grope for her from both sides. The passengers—what’s left of them—move with sickening jerks, faces half-rotted, eyes clouded with death. One of them slams into a seat as she shoves past, and it lets out a low, rattling moan that chills her blood.

“Stay back!” she shouts, voice cracking with strain.

Her hands are slick with sweat and gun oil. The pistol trembles as she raises it, firing two quick rounds into the closest corpse’s chest. The first shot does nothing. The second finally drops it, sending the body collapsing backward into the aisle—but the others don’t even flinch. They just keep coming.

Rebecca backs away, stumbling on the uneven flooring as the train jolts on its tracks. The stench of rot fills her throat, bitter and metallic. Her mind races. You need an exit. Now.

Another step back. Another shot. A miss—the bullet ricochets off the metal wall with a deafening clang, and the glass window beside her shatters, spraying her face with rain.

She flinches, wipes her eyes, and bolts through the next car door. The metal handle slips in her grip, but she forces it open and stumbles inside. Then she throws her shoulder into the door, slamming it shut. The lock clicks.

For a moment, there’s silence except for the hammering of her heartbeat. Then—thud.

She jumps. The pounding starts immediately. The dead are already clawing at the other side.

Rebecca presses herself against the cold metal wall, struggling to catch her breath. “Okay,” she whispers to herself, voice trembling. “Okay, just… think. You can handle this.”

Her flashlight wavers as she looks around. The car is dim, the air thick with the smell of smoke and blood. A man’s body lies slumped against the far door—the one marked engine car. His uniform is stained, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. One hand clutches something glinting faintly under her beam.

A key.

Rebecca forces herself to move. Every step feels loud—too loud—but she doesn’t stop. She crouches beside the body, trying not to look at his face.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs under her breath, reaching for the key. “I just need—”

Click.

A metallic sound slices through the silence.

She freezes. Every instinct in her body goes still. The sound of a gun being cocked is unmistakable.

A voice follows, low and controlled, with a rough edge that makes her pulse spike.

“Don’t move.”

Her breath catches. Slowly, carefully, she lifts her hands, flashlight still trembling between her fingers.

Behind her stands a man—broad-shouldered, tall, and carrying the quiet kind of strength that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. His tank top clings to his frame, stained from blood, sweat, and dirt, yet his posture remains proud, unbroken. The tattoo curling down his arm is bold and deliberate—tribal and sharp-edged.

But the gun pointed at her head doesn’t waver. There’s no arrogance in the way he holds his gun—just certainty. He doesn’t need to prove he’s dangerous. The weight of his silence already does that for him.

He looks like someone who’s long past caring about consequences.

“Billy… Lieutenant Coen,” she says quietly, forcing her voice not to shake.

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “So, you seem to know me,” He tilts his head, almost amused. “Been fantasizing about me, have you?”

Rebecca straightens, glare sharp despite the fear twisting in her stomach. “You’re the prisoner that was being transferred for execution,” she says, steady now. “You were with those soldiers outside.”

His eyes, sharp and dark, carry a strange mix of wariness and weariness—a soldier’s vigilance, a convict’s exhaustion. The dog tags resting against his chest catch just enough light to remind anyone looking that he was someone once. Not just a killer. A lieutenant. A man who’s seen war, made mistakes, and survived both.

“Oh, I see. You’re with S.T.A.R.S.” The way he says it—half mockery, half understanding—makes her bristle. “Well,” he drawls, “no offense, honey, but your kind doesn’t seem to want me around.”

He lowers the gun and slips it back into his holster, voice dropping into that careless, taunting rhythm again.

“So I’m afraid our little chat time is over.”

Rebecca’s jaw tightens. “Wait! You’re under arrest!”

He chuckles, a short, humorless sound. “No thanks, doll-face.”

He lifts his left wrist and shows her the broken handcuffs dangling there. The handcuffs hanging from his wrist glint faintly under the light, a quiet symbol of everything he’s running from and everything he refuses to become again.

“I’ve already worn handcuffs.”

Then he turns to leave, boots echoing on the metal floor.

“I could shoot, you know!” she calls out after him, hand trembling near her gun.

Billy pauses at the door. His shoulders stiffen slightly, and for a brief second, the mocking edge in his voice fades. When he looks back at her, there’s something almost tired in his expression. “You won’t.”

And then he’s gone.

The sound of the door sliding shut is like a slap of silence. Rebecca’s gun lowers slowly as her arms start to shake. The adrenaline drains out of her all at once, leaving her weak and dizzy.

Outside, the pounding begins again.

She slides down against the wall, clutching her pistol, trying to steady her breathing. Her reflection stares back at her from a cracked piece of metal on the wall—wide eyes, blood on her cheek, and a haunted look that doesn’t belong to someone who just left the academy.

She whispers to herself, barely audible over the storm.

“God… what have we walked into?” Rebecca barely has time to catch her breath. Her pulse is pounding in her ears, the echo of her footsteps against the metallic floors of the train blurring with the staccato rhythm of her heartbeat. The air reeks—iron, rot, and the strange chemical tang that clings to every inch of this place.

She stumbles forward, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping her Beretta like a lifeline. The low hum of the train mixes with the distant sound of rain outside, and for just a second, she allows herself to hope that the worst is over.

Then—

A crash.

The glass window beside her explodes inward in a rain of shards, slicing through the silence like gunfire. Rebecca screams, instinctively ducking as her arm flies up to protect her face. When she looks again, her heart twists.

“Edward!”

He’s slumped halfway through the broken window, blood dripping from his uniform in slow, dreadful rivulets. His once-pristine S.T.A.R.S. jacket is shredded, the insignia smeared crimson. His breathing is ragged, shallow—wet.

“Edward, oh my God—” Rebecca rushes forward, glass crunching beneath her boots as she catches his shoulders, trying to ease him down. His weight collapses against her, heavy and trembling. “You’re going to be okay,” she says, though her voice trembles. “We’ll—we’ll get you out of here. Just hold on, please—”

His gloved hand grasps her arm suddenly, desperate. His eyes—glassy, unfocused—lock onto hers.

“It’s worse than… w-we thought…” Edward’s voice is broken, gurgling around every word. Blood flecks his lips. “You must… be careful, Rebecca. The forest—it’s full of…” He struggles for breath, his body shuddering violently. “Z… zombies and… monsters.”

Rebecca freezes. The words are absurd. Impossible. “Monsters?” she whispers, shaking her head. “Edward, that’s not—”

But his body seizes once, twice—then stills. His eyes go blank, the faintest sigh escaping his lips.

“Edward?” Her voice is small now, a child’s voice. She shakes him lightly. “Edward, please—”

The silence that answers her is unbearable.

For a long, frozen second, she can’t move. Her breath catches in her throat, and grief swells in her chest so hard it hurts to breathe. Edward had been one of the kind ones—always teasing, always laughing, the kind of man who offered his rations to her. He’d promised to watch her back.

And now—

Now he’s just gone.

Tears sting her eyes, blurring his still face. She swallows hard, brushing at her cheeks, but it’s useless. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I should’ve been faster—I should’ve—”

The air shifts.

A low, guttural growl seeps from the broken window. It’s wet and animalistic, wrong. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She turns slowly—

—and her blood runs cold.

Something moves in the darkness outside. The sound of claws against metal. A panting rasp that doesn’t belong to anything living. Then, out of the shadows, the beast lunges.

The dog—if it can even be called that anymore—lands with a thud, snarling. Flesh hangs in ragged strips from its ribs, and one eye is milky, clouded. Its muscles twitch beneath torn, infected skin, and its teeth glint under the train’s dim light.

Rebecca stumbles back, slamming into the wall. “Oh God—”

The dog growls, foam and blood dripping from its jaws. It steps closer, head low, its nostrils flaring as it smells the blood pooling beneath Edward’s body.

Rebecca raises her gun, hands trembling. “Stay—stay back!”

The beast snarls louder, its ears flattening, and then it pounces.

Rebecca fires. The shot echoes in the small cabin like a thunderclap, and the recoil nearly knocks her backward. The dog yelps, twisting midair, but it doesn’t fall—it only grows angrier.

Rebecca fires again, this time screaming as she empties half her magazine into the creature. It jerks once, twice—then collapses with a sickening thud, inches away from Edward’s still form.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Rebecca’s chest heaves as she lowers the gun, her arm shaking violently. Her ears ring, her vision swims. The stench of blood—fresh and decaying—coats her tongue.

She looks down at Edward again, her vision blurring with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers again, voice barely audible.

The rain outside drums softly against the roof of the train, and the cabin feels unbearably small.

Rebecca forces her body to move. Her grief claws at her ribs, but she shoves it down—she has to. She’ll break later. She’ll cry later.

Right now, she has to survive.

And so, with one last glance at Edward’s body, Rebecca turns and runs deeper into the train, the weight of loss pressing heavily against her spine—and the echo of Edward’s last words following her like a ghost. “Zombies and monsters…”

—

The static hums.

Rebecca presses the radio closer to her ear, the distant crackle of Enrico’s voice threading through layers of interference. The sound alone nearly makes her collapse in relief. A voice. A familiar one.

“This is Rebecca,” she says quickly, her breath shaky. “Over.”

“Rebecca, can you hear me?” Enrico’s voice cuts through—distorted, but steady enough to recognize. “This is Enrico. What’s your location? Over.”

“Enrico!” Her voice trembles as hope blooms in her chest. “Hello? Can you read me? Please respond!”

There’s a burst of static. Then—

“Rebecca, I can hear you now—listen up!” His tone sharpens, commanding. “We’ve obtained detailed information on the fugitive from a document found in the wrecked wagon. Billy Coen killed as many as twenty-three people. Over.”

Rebecca freezes. The blood drains from her face. “Twenty-three… people,” she repeats quietly, the words almost catching in her throat.

Her mind flashes back to the man’s eyes—the mocking smirk, the casual confidence as he’d pointed a gun at her. The way he’d called her honey. The broken cuff still hanging from his wrist. Twenty-three people…

Enrico continues, voice heavy with warning. “We’ve also confirmed that he was institutionalized. So keep your guard up. Can you hear me, Rebecca? Over. Stay alert, Rebecca. He wouldn’t think twice about killing you.”

“Enrico?” Her voice pitches upward. “Captain! Hello? Hello?”

But all that answers her is the hiss of static.

The radio crackles a few more times—and then dies.

—

The next car reeks of blood and oil.

Rebecca steps into the corridor with her gun drawn, boots squeaking faintly against the floor. The ceiling lights flicker, bathing everything in pulses of amber and shadow. A draft rushes through the cracked window panes—wet, metallic, and thick with the scent of rot. She swallows hard. Her fingers are trembling, though she tells them not to.

Behind her, the faint sound of heavy footsteps approaches. She spins around instinctively, gun raised.

Billy Coen stands in the doorway, his dark eyes catching the light, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t look scared. Just... tired. Dangerous, maybe—but calm in a way that makes her skin prickle.

He lets out a quiet whistle. “It’s gonna be dangerous from here on out," he says, his voice deep and steady. “Why don’t we cooperate?”

Rebecca blinks. For a moment, she almost laughs—part disbelief, part exhaustion. “Cooperate? With you?”

Billy’s brow arches. His jaw tightens. “Listen, little girl,” he says, a faint edge of irritation under his drawl, “if you haven’t noticed, there’s some pretty fucked up things on this train. And I, for one, wanna get out of here. I don’t think we stand a chance of doing it alone.”

Little girl.

The words sting more than they should. She’s been mocked for her age before—too young for S.T.A.R.S., too small, too green. But she’s here now, alive, while the others are missing or dead.

Her grip on the Beretta tightens. “You expect me to trust you? A wanted felon?” Her voice wavers but doesn’t break. “I don’t need your help. I can handle this on my own. And don’t call me little girl.”

He smirks—slow, lazy, infuriating. “Ha, alright, Miss Do-It-Yourself. What should I call you, then?”

Her pulse spikes. He’s too close. The gun remains between them, but her breath catches anyway.

“The name is Rebecca Chambers,” she snaps, lifting her chin, “but that’s Officer Chambers to you.”

Billy lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Well then, Rebecca...” he drawls, deliberately dropping the title as he leans against the doorway, folding his arms across his chest. “Why don’t you go and try while I wait here?”

Rebecca glares at him. The smug grin doesn’t fade.

Her frustration bubbles up, sharper than fear, and she shoulders past him—her arm brushing against his as she storms deeper into the train. She can feel his eyes on her back as she disappears into the next car.

Somewhere beyond, the faint echo of shuffling feet and wet snarls rolls through the metal halls. The air feels colder here.

Rebecca takes a breath. Tries to steady her hands again.

“Officer Chambers,” she whispers under her breath.

As if saying it could make her believe it.

—

Rebecca climbs the narrow staircase carefully, her boots clanging against the metal steps in rhythm with the soft hiss of the train’s movement. The lights above flicker—pale and sickly—casting trembling shadows along the walls. The second floor smells like rust and mold, but also something older, like a crypt that’s been sealed too long.

When she reaches the top landing, she sees him.

An elderly man sits slumped in one of the rear seats, dressed in a tattered uniform that once might’ve looked respectable. His posture is eerily calm, his hands folded neatly in his lap. For a heartbeat, Rebecca’s chest tightens.

A survivor.

Her relief is almost dizzying. She lowers her gun slightly and steps closer, trying to steady her voice.

“Um… excuse me, sir?” she says softly, forcing a polite smile despite the dread curling in her stomach. “Sir, can you hear me? I’m with the RPD, S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

No answer.

Rebecca frowns and reaches out, shaking his shoulder gently. “Sir?”

The man’s head lolls forward—and then, impossibly, it keeps turning. The sound it makes is wet and deliberate, bone scraping against gristle, until the head rolls fully off his neck and drops onto the floor with a dull, heavy thud.

Rebecca stumbles back with a gasp.

The corpse’s skin ripples—bubbling, splitting—and before she can even breathe, the entire body collapses in on itself like melting wax. The seat beneath it sags under the sudden weight of rotting, glistening flesh.

From the puddle, something moves.

“W-What the…?”

The slime heaves upward, glimmering faintly in the flickering light. Dozens—hundreds—of slick black leeches slither free, their bodies writhing and twisting together into a single mass. The squirming sound fills the car, sticky and damp, like wet rags being torn apart. Rebecca backs away, hand trembling around her pistol.

The creatures merge—stretch—grow taller until a rough shape emerges. A man’s silhouette, rebuilt from the swarm. The face reforms last, and when it opens its mouth, there’s nothing human left behind the sneer.

Rebecca barely has time to raise her weapon before it lunges.

The world becomes a blur of gunfire and movement—her shots echo through the train, punching through the leech-flesh. The creature’s body shudders with each impact, oozing and reforming. It crashes forward again, screeching in a voice that isn’t a voice at all.

When the thing finally collapses, it doesn’t die quietly.

Its chest bursts open, spraying leeches in all directions. They swarm toward her—up her legs, across her chest, into her hair. Their bodies are cold and slick, clinging to her uniform, wriggling beneath the fabric. Rebecca screams and tries to brush them off, firing blindly as panic overwhelms her.

And then—gunfire, rapid and precise.

The leeches explode into wet pulp as the rounds tear through them. The air fills with the smell of gunpowder and decay. Rebecca falls backward, slamming into the wall, her breath ragged and shallow. The last few creatures drop from her body, twitching as they die.

She blinks through the haze, trembling.

Billy stands a few feet away, his handgun still smoking. He lowers it slowly, his gaze sweeping over the carnage. When a stray handful of leeches leap toward him, he doesn’t even flinch—two quick shots, and they burst apart midair. The rest retreat in a slithering hiss, disappearing back into the cracks of the floor.

Rebecca exhales shakily, pressing a hand against her chest.

“Are you okay?” Billy asks, stepping closer. His tone isn’t unkind—just measured, cautious.

Rebecca looks up at him, eyes wide but resolute. Despite the tremor in her hand, she manages to lift her thumb weakly.

Billy stares at her for a second, then lets out a short, quiet snort. “Hmph.”

He looks away, holstering his gun. The lights are starting to flicker.

Rebecca leans back against the cold wall, letting her head fall against it for just a second. Her uniform is damp with blood and leech slime. Her hands are still shaking. But she’s alive. Somehow.

She swallows hard and looks toward Billy again—the fugitive, the killer, the man she doesn’t want to trust.

Right now, though, she doesn’t have much choice.

The lights flicker again, weaker this time, casting the train car in half-darkness. For a moment, all Rebecca can hear is her own heartbeat and the low groan of the wind outside. Then—

A voice.

Soft. Melodic.

A man’s voice, smooth as silk and wrong in a way that twists the gut. The tone isn’t humanly calm—it’s too detached, too deliberate. He’s singing. The words drift faintly through the cracks of the windows, warped by the rain.

Rebecca freezes. Billy straightens, his head tilting toward the sound.

Through the shattered glass, they can just make out the outline of a man standing in the storm—a cloaked figure, face hidden beneath a wide hood. The hem of his garment ripples like liquid as leeches crawl up from the earth and coil lovingly around his boots, slithering up his arms like obedient pets. They glisten wetly beneath the flashes of lightning, drawn to him as if he were their master.

Billy’s jaw tightens. “…Who the hell is that guy?”

Before Rebecca can respond, the floor lurches violently beneath them.

The entire train jolts to life, gears grinding deep within its mechanical heart. Rebecca stumbles, grabbing onto the nearby railing to steady herself. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels begins again, this time faster, sharper—unnaturally fast.

She gasps, barely keeping her footing. “What’s going on?! Who’s controlling the train?!”

Billy steadies himself against a seat, muscles tense beneath his soaked shirt. His eyes dart toward the front of the car. “Go and check the first engine car,” he says sharply.

Rebecca hesitates, glancing at him.

She’s halfway toward the stairs when his voice stops her.

“Listen!”

The word carries weight—authority, even desperation. She turns back, finding his eyes already on hers. His tone is no longer mocking, but raw, edged with the kind of experience that only comes from surviving too much. “We gotta cooperate from now on, you got that?”

Rebecca bristles instantly. “Well, I don’t.”

Billy exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching—not amusement, not quite frustration, but something between. “Clue in, girl!” he snaps, stepping toward her. The sudden bark of his voice echoes against the steel walls. “Or maybe you like being worm bait?”

The insult hits like a slap. Rebecca’s cheeks flush with anger, but not from embarrassment—from hurt pride. She lifts her chin, eyes blazing. “Alright!” she bites out. “But you just remember—I’ll shoot you if you try anything funny.”

For a second, they just glare at each other, tension hanging thick in the narrow corridor. Then Billy sighs and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

“Fine.”

He bends down, grabs a small box from a seat, and tosses it her way. She catches it clumsily—handgun ammo. The gesture stuns her more than the words ever could.

“Take these with you,” he says, tone steady again.

Rebecca blinks, looking down at the bullets in her hand. When she looks up, Billy is already holding up his radio. “If you find anything, give me a call, alright?”

He gives her a small, wry look—half serious, half challenge.

Rebecca’s breath catches. She glances at her own radio, then grips it tightly before giving a short, silent nod.

The storm rages harder outside, lightning tearing the sky open like a wound. Somewhere beneath the rain and thunder, the strange voice continues to sing—faint, distant, yet unmistakably close.

Rebecca doesn’t waste another second. She turns on her heel and runs up the stairs, boots pounding against the metal. The sound fades into the rhythmic hum of the speeding train, leaving Billy alone with the lingering echo of her defiance—and the haunting melody drifting through the night.

—

Rain hits her face, biting cold and merciless as Rebecca grips the side ladder, her fingers slick with rain and grime. The wind shrieks past her ears, howling like a living thing as she drags herself up onto the roof of the train. The steel beneath her boots trembles with every roll of the wheels—metal grinding against metal as lightning splits the night sky in jagged streaks.

The world is chaos—wind, thunder, rain, and the ghostly moan of the train surging forward through the storm. But Rebecca forces herself to focus. She crawls across the slick roof toward the sparking, severed electrical cable just ahead.

“There you are…” she mutters under her breath, voice trembling from the cold and adrenaline.

The cable writhes like a snake in the wind, its sparks cutting through the dark. She digs into her belt for the insulated clamp, her hands shaking as she works. The smell of ozone and wet metal fills the air.

“Okay, just… stay steady.”

Her heart thunders in her chest. She braces herself, reaches out, and—

CRACK!

A blinding flash of blue light floods the rooftop as she reconnects the wire. The current surges back through the system, and somewhere below, she sees the faint glow of electric light flare back to life in the dining car windows.

Rebecca exhales shakily—relief flooding her chest.

“Got it.”

Then—something moves.

It’s subtle at first, just a slither of sound, like wet fabric being dragged across steel. Her eyes flick toward the wires—

—and her stomach drops.

From the dark crevices beneath the cables, something thick and glistening begins to ooze outward. It drips slowly at first, then faster, pooling beneath the junction box before bursting upward in a sudden, violent motion.

A massive, pulsating blob of slime launches itself toward her.

Rebecca gasps, stumbling back instinctively. Her boots skid on the slick metal, and before she can catch herself—

—the world disappears.

She crashes through a weak panel in the roof, plunging down into the train car below.

The impact knocks the air from her lungs. Rebecca lies there for a moment, dazed, surrounded by the sharp smell of dust and old wood. A groan escapes her as she pushes herself up. She checks her arms—no breaks, just bruises. Her flashlight flickers, casting a pale cone of light across the cramped compartment.

The door won’t budge. She rattles the handle—locked.

“Great,” she mutters, pressing her forehead against the cold metal. “Just perfect.”

Somewhere above her, the train shudders.

—

Meanwhile, Billy steps into the bar car. The room is eerily elegant—plush seats, ornate chandeliers, and a long counter lined with cracked bottles that shimmer in the dim light. It feels too calm. Too normal.

He pauses, listening.

CLANG.

The noise comes from above. A screeching, dragging sound follows—like claws scraping against steel. His muscles tense.

“Rebecca…?” he mutters under his breath.

Thump. Thump.

The ceiling above him dents inward. Dust sprinkles down. Billy raises his gun just as the chandelier overhead shakes violently—then crashes down in a rain of glass and sparks.

“Shit!”

He throws an arm over his face as shards slice through the air. Then the ceiling splits open with a deafening rip.

Two enormous claws pierce through the metal, curling inward with terrifying precision. Another shriek follows—a piercing, insectile wail that rattles the walls.

Billy’s stomach sinks.

“What the hell—”

The ceiling tears completely open. Out crawls the nightmare: a massive scorpion, its chitin gleaming wet and black under the flickering light. Its pincers clack open and shut, each movement slicing through the air. It lets out another guttural screech as it lunges forward.

Billy barely dodges in time.

“Guess we’re skipping drinks,” he growls, cocking his weapon.

—

Elsewhere, Rebecca finally pries open a maintenance panel with trembling fingers. The tool in her hand screeches against the rusted bolts, but the hatch gives way, opening into a narrow crawlspace. The air smells like oil and decay.

She takes one last look at the locked door behind her, then crawls into the darkness.

But she doesn’t get far.

As soon as she pulls herself out of the crawlspace, the air splits with a feral snarl. Two infected dogs—flesh half-rotted, eyes burning with a sick red glow—burst from their cages.

“Ah!”

Rebecca barely dives aside before the first lunges. It slams into the wall, snapping its jaws. The second circles behind her, growling, saliva dripping from its teeth. The sound of claws skittering against metal fills the hall.

She raises her weapon with trembling hands. “I’m sorry…”

BANG. BANG.

The shots echo through the corridor, mingling with the wet slap of bodies collapsing to the floor. Rebecca lowers her pistol, panting, her arms trembling from both fear and exhaustion.

She barely has time to breathe before the walls themselves begin to… move.

Soft, wet sounds fill the air—like hundreds of tiny hearts beating in unison. The corridor walls are lined with clusters of pale, glistening sacs.

Eggs.

Rebecca stares, horror twisting her stomach as she watches them pulse and split open. Thin streams of slime leak from the ruptured shells as newborn leeches writhe free, glimmering like living tar.

The hall seems to come alive around her—floor, walls, ceiling—every surface crawling, shifting, alive.

Rebecca stumbles backward, gun raised.

“Oh God…” she whispers, voice trembling.

She bolts.

Outside, thunder roars. Inside, the train moves faster—an iron beast tearing through the storm.

—

A soldier grips his radio with trembling fingers, his gloved hand slick with sweat despite the cold.

“This is Delta Team—this is Delta Team,” he shouts over the noise, pressing the device close to his mouth as thunder crashes overhead. “We have gained control of the train! Over.”

The line crackles for a moment—static and silence—before a smooth, composed voice answers.

“Understood.”

The voice is calm. Too calm.

The scene shifts.

Miles away, deep within a dimly lit control room, the low hum of machines fills the silence. Flickering monitors illuminate the space with cold, green light. In one corner, a man in a black S.T.A.R.S. uniform sits with effortless authority, his blonde hair slicked back, his sunglasses gleaming even in the gloom. He doesn’t look at the screens as he speaks; he doesn’t need to. His posture alone commands the room.

Captain Albert Wesker.

Across from him, another man—shorter, sharper in movement, with a white lab coat that gleams like bone in the fluorescent light—flips through a stack of papers. His brow furrows in agitation, eyes flicking rapidly across the data. His tone is clipped, his words fast and analytical.

William Birkin.

William slams a hand onto the table. “This does not make any sense,” he mutters, voice low but seething. “How was the T-Virus leaked? And why did it contaminate both the lab in the mansion and a train nearly three miles away?”

The question hangs in the air like a challenge.

Wesker tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable behind those dark lenses. His fingers tap idly on the control panel beside him—slow, deliberate taps that echo faintly against the metallic desk. Then he exhales, a small sound, the kind one makes when growing impatient.

“That’s irrelevant,” he says finally, his tone smooth as silk but cold as a scalpel. He leans forward toward the microphone, his gloved fingers brushing the mic switch. “We must make sure no knowledge of this gets out.”

His lips curve in a faint, humorless smile. “Destroy the train. Completely.”

William looks up sharply, disbelief flashing across his face. “Destroy it? Wesker—”

But Wesker doesn’t even glance his way. His gaze remains fixed forward, voice cutting clean through the static. “How far away are you from the nearest branch line?”

—

Rain pelts harder against the glass of the engine car. The soldier outside the door presses the radio to his ear, his voice taut with focus. “About ten minutes to—”

He freezes.

A sound—a wet, crawling sound—echoes from behind them. At first it’s faint, like rainwater trickling through pipes. But it grows louder. Thicker. More alive.

The soldier turns, flashlight cutting through the darkness.

“Oh, hell,” he breathes.

Something glistens there—black, green, and red under the stormlight. A writhing, pulsating mass forces itself through the gaps in the fence. Leeches. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They fall in waves, splattering wetly onto the ground before surging forward as one horrific, living tide.

The soldier stumbles back, raising his weapon.

 “Command, we’ve got—!”

He never finishes.

The leeches strike fast—leaping, crawling, wrapping around his boots, his legs, his torso. His screams tear through the storm as he fires blindly, bullets shredding the night. The muzzle flashes light up his face—twisted in pain, in terror—as the creatures climb higher, sinking their tiny, needle-like mouths into his flesh.

“GET OFF—”

His voice cuts out as he’s dragged down. The machine gun clatters to the ground beside him, still firing, rattling across the wet concrete.

—

Back in the control room, the radio bursts into static. Then—gunfire. Screams.

Wesker’s composure doesn’t break. He leans forward slightly, one gloved finger tightening against the mic. “What happened?” His tone doesn’t change—it’s still level, almost curious—but there’s an unmistakable edge in his voice.

More gunfire. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Then nothing. Just the hiss of empty radio static.

William looks up from his papers, the faintest tremor of unease flickering in his sharp blue eyes. “Wesker…”

Wesker doesn’t respond. He stands, the black leather of his gloves creaking softly as he folds his arms. His jaw tightens imperceptibly.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs under his breath. “They couldn’t even follow simple orders.”

—

Outside, the last of the soldiers staggers from the control cabin, clutching his rifle. His boots slide in the mud as he backs away—eyes wide, chest heaving. “No… no…”

From the shadows behind him, the leeches slither forward again, dozens forming together—merging, shaping into a single humanoid silhouette. The storm’s light flashes across a face that isn’t quite human. A smile that shouldn’t exist.

The soldier doesn’t even have time to scream before the swarm consumes him.

Moments later, the rain falls again in silence. The bodies lie still. 

And the leeches retreat—flowing back toward the darkness, toward their master.

—

The train screams down the rails like a wounded animal.

Steel grinds against steel, sparks flare from beneath the wheels, and the walls quake with every thunderous lurch forward. The Ecliptic Express—once a symbol of wealth and luxury—has become a coffin of roaring metal hurtling into the dark.

Inside the control car, the air hums with heat and the acrid tang of smoke. The console flickers erratically, half its lights dead, the other half blinking a violent red. Billy stands before it, a bit more bloody, a bit more tired than before, eyes darting across the maze of dials, his jaw tight with concentration.

“The train will either derail or crash,” he mutters, voice raw from shouting over the noise. “I have to stop this thing!”

Rebecca’s boots scrape against the trembling floor as she studies the console beside him. Her brow is slick with sweat, a single strand of hair plastered to her cheek. She breathes fast but steady—her heart pounding loud enough to drown out reason.

Her gaze shifts to Billy. “I’ll go over to the back deck and manipulate the control panel for the brake,” she says, her tone clipped but firm. “You stay here and apply the brake when ready.”

Billy looks up, eyes flashing, “Okay.”

Rebecca nods once and turns to go—but his voice cuts through the noise again. “Rebecca!”

She spins back, startled. “Hmm?”

He meets her eyes, and for just a heartbeat the tension breaks—replaced by something quiet, human, almost protective. “Don’t screw up, okay?”

A smirk tugs at her lips despite the chaos. She places a hand on her hip with exaggerated confidence. “I won’t.”

Then she’s gone—boots pounding down the corridor, swallowed by the metallic howl of the runaway train.

—

The cars shudder violently as Rebecca races through them, her flashlight beam slicing through clouds of dust and steam. The train is dying, and it knows it. Every screech of the wheels sounds like a cry for mercy.

She bursts into the next car—only to freeze.

A low, wet sound echoes from the far corner. Chewing. Tearing. The sound of something feeding.

Rebecca’s light jerks toward the noise.

There—on the floor—a corpse lies sprawled, face-down, its uniform drenched in blood. And crouched over it is another man, or what used to be one. His body trembles with each grotesque movement. His head lifts slowly, as if remembering what it means to be alive.

The beam of her flashlight lands square on his face.

“Edward…” Her knees weaken. For a moment the world tilts, the roaring of the train fading to a faint, broken hum. She knows that face. She trained with him. He was kind. Steady. One of the few she could trust.

Now his eyes are milky white. His jaw hangs slack and smeared with blood.

“Edward! No. No. No no no—” she breathes, hard and fast.

He rises with a slow, jerking motion, skin pallid and ruined, arms outstretched. The thing that used to be Edward lets out a gurgling moan.

Rebecca’s voice cracks as she raises her pistol. “Stop! Don’t come any closer!”

He doesn’t stop.

The gunshot echoes like thunder. Then another. And another.

Edward collapses, his body hitting the floor with a heavy, final thud.

Rebecca lowers her weapon, hands shaking. She wants to look away—but can’t. Not yet. Not from him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

—

When she finally reaches the rear deck, her muscles ache and her throat burns from smoke. She’s exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. The control panel is there—flickering, half-fried, but operational. She drops to one knee, scanning the code interface. Her gloved fingers fly over the keys, entering the override sequence.

The display beeps once—then stabilizes.

“This is Rebecca,” she says into her radio, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I have engaged the control device for the brake. Over.”

“Roger,” Billy replies. His tone carries that rough edge of determination she’s grown used to. “I’ll put the brake on now!”

—

In the engine room, Billy grips the lever with both hands. The whole car rattles around him like it’s about to fly apart. Warning lights flash. Steam bursts from broken pipes.

“Come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Come on!”

He throws the lever forward.

The brakes shriek to life. The wheels lock for a split second—then scream in protest. The sound is unbearable, metal grinding against metal as the train begins to decelerate.

But it’s too late.

The train is still moving too fast.

“Damn it!” Billy slams his shoulder against the panel, forcing the emergency override. Sparks burst overhead. He can feel the vibration through his bones, the violent tremor of machinery tearing itself apart.

Billy’s hands are a blur on the console. His knuckles are raw, his arms trembling with the strain as he yanks the final brake lever into place. The metal beneath his feet screams.

Sparks explode from the wheels outside like showers of molten fire, flooding the darkness with orange light. The Ecliptic Express wails as if alive, its great body convulsing under the impossible pressure.

“Come on,” Billy growls through gritted teeth. “Come on!”

The brakes clamp down—but the train doesn’t slow enough. Not nearly enough. The violent shaking grows worse, rattling the very air.

Rebecca braces herself in the rear car, gripping a railing until her hands ache. Her heart hammers in her ears. The roar of the train drowns out everything, even her own breathing.

The world tilts.

As the train hits a sharp turn, the entire right side lifts from the tracks. Metal shrieks like an animal in pain. Rebecca’s stomach lurches as gravity shifts—then the Ecliptic Express slams back down with a bone-crunching crash that rattles her teeth.

The impact throws her to her knees. Pain shoots through her leg, but she forces herself up again, one hand pressed against the wall for balance.

For a heartbeat, there’s silence—then the next horror.

The headlights slice into the darkness ahead, revealing the mouth of a tunnel. But the tunnel isn’t an escape—it’s a trap.

A dead end.

Rebecca’s eyes widen. “Oh no…”

Billy realizes it too. His hand is still gripping the lever when he whispers, “Shit—”

The Ecliptic Express plunges into the tunnel at full speed.

The walls close in on both sides, black and screaming. Sparks cascade from the ceiling as the train scrapes the stone. Billy’s vision blurs from the shock and smoke as the console bursts in front of him, wires snapping free.

The barricade looms ahead—metal and steel and death.

The impact hits like the world ending.

The front of the train smashes through the barricade, splintering iron and wood. The force throws Billy backward. The entire train twists, the cars buckling like paper as the Ecliptic Express leaps the rails, spins, and crashes sideways.

For one endless moment, everything hangs suspended in midair—fire, glass, fragments of luxury.

Then gravity takes it all.

The train lands on its side with an earth-shaking crash that echoes through the tunnel. It slides across the ground, grinding sparks into flame. The shriek of tortured steel fills the air as it carves through rock and debris before finally—mercifully—coming to a halt.

And then—silence.

Only the soft crackle of fire remains, licking at the overturned cars.

—

When Billy opens his eyes, the world is sideways. The smell of smoke and oil fills his lungs. His ears ring with a piercing whine. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is—only that something heavy and cold presses against his shoulder.

He groans and pushes himself up, coughing, a thin line of blood trailing from his temple.

He’s outside. Somehow thrown from the wreck. The ground beneath him is littered with shards of metal, glass, and splintered rail.

His voice comes out hoarse, broken. “...Rebecca.”

No answer.

He stumbles forward, nearly tripping over a half-buried piece of the train’s hull. “Rebecca!”

A faint voice responds from the smoke. “I’m... here.”

He spins toward the sound. Through the haze, she appears—limping, clutching her side, her face streaked with blood and grime. Her uniform is torn, her eyes dazed but alert.

“Rebecca!” He rushes to her side, steadying her before she can fall. “Are you all right?”

She exhales shakily, nodding once. “I think so.” Her voice is thin, hoarse from the smoke.

Billy looks past her—toward the train. The once-proud Ecliptic Express now lies mangled and burning, half-buried in the tunnel’s throat.

He huffs a dry, breathless laugh. “Hey... we managed to stop the train.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch, her exhaustion showing through the faintest ghost of a smile. “Yeah,” she says softly. “We managed.”

The faint glow of firelight dances over their faces as they stand among the wreckage—two survivors framed by ruin.

Billy glances toward the darkness stretching deeper into the tunnel. “We have to find a way out,” he murmurs.

—

The air beyond the twisted wreckage of the Ecliptic Express is heavy—thick with the acrid stench of burnt fuel and scorched steel. Rebecca presses her sleeve to her mouth as she and Billy shove aside a half-collapsed panel, the groaning metal giving way beneath their combined weight.

It takes effort to squeeze through the gap, but when they do, the world shifts again. The cold darkness of the tunnel fades into something eerily pristine.

A vast marble hallway stretches before them.

Rebecca lowers her arm slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dim golden light cast by ornate chandeliers swaying faintly from the ceiling. Dust motes drift lazily in the still air. The floor beneath their boots is layered with rich carpet—deep crimson, embroidered with Umbrella’s emblem, faded from time and neglect.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Billy moves first, scanning their surroundings with sharp, deliberate movements. “This place…” His voice trails off as his gaze lands on a crest embossed on the wall—Umbrella’s red and white insignia, unmistakable even beneath years of grime.

Then his eyes fall to the design on the rug. His jaw tightens. “The Umbrella Research Center?” he mutters, disbelief and recognition mingling.

Rebecca swallows hard. Her footsteps echo as she walks deeper into the hall. Her eyes catch on something at the far end—a massive oil painting framed in gold. The image depicts a man standing tall in a formal uniform, his posture proud, eyes stern.

She takes a cautious step forward, squinting through the low light. And then she sees it.

The man’s face—pale, composed, familiar in the most horrifying way. The shape of his mouth, the angle of his chin—it’s him. The thing from the train. The monster made of writhing leeches and decaying flesh.

Rebecca inhales sharply, the sound trembling out of her. “Oh my god…”

Billy follows her line of sight, studying the plaque beneath the portrait. His voice breaks the silence, deep and measured. “The first general manager,” he reads aloud, “Dr. James Marcus.”

—

Far away, in the sterile hum of a control room lined with monitors, two men watch them.

Wesker sits poised, one leg crossed over the other, the low light glinting off his sunglasses. Beside him, Birkin flips a page in the file spread before him, though his attention is clearly elsewhere.

The cameras flicker—grainy black and white images of Rebecca and Billy moving through the hall. Birkin tilts his head slightly, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“Who on earth are those people?” he muses aloud.

Wesker doesn’t look away from the screen. His voice is smooth, controlled, every word deliberate. “She’s a member of S.T.A.R.S.”

Birkin glances sideways. “Hmm. And the male?”

Wesker’s tone turns flat. “Unfamiliar.”

The low buzz of the monitors fills the air for a few seconds—until it’s shattered by a sudden voice.

A voice not from the control room.

The speakers crackle to life, and a man’s tone fills the hallway where Rebecca and Billy stand—echoing, haunting, both cultured and venomous.

“Attention,” the voice commands. “This is Dr. Marcus.”

Rebecca spins toward the sound, eyes wide. Billy instinctively raises his weapon.

“Please be silent,” the voice continues, almost serenely, “as we reflect upon our company motto.”

A pause—and then the cadence turns ritualistic.

“Obedience breeds discipline.
Discipline breeds unity.
Unity breeds power.
Power is life.”

Rebecca stands frozen, her pulse thudding in her ears. The words slither through the hall, amplified through unseen speakers. They sound like a sermon—and a threat.

Back in the control room, the monitors suddenly flicker, the feed scrambling. Wesker leans forward. “What the hell?”

The static clears, and the screen fills with a new image—a man cloaked in shadow, his face illuminated just enough to reveal the unmistakable contours of the same man from the painting. The same man who shouldn’t exist.

Birkin blinks. “Hmm?”

The cloaked man chuckles. It’s low, hollow, filled with cold amusement.

Wesker narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”

The figure tilts his head slightly, as though savoring the question. When he speaks again, his voice is heavy with venom and triumph. “It was I who scattered the T-Virus in the mansion,” he declares. “Needless to say, I contaminated the train too.”

Birkin shoots upright in his chair. “What?”

The man’s grin widens, almost mocking. “Revenge... on Umbrella.”

He raises his arms slowly, as if in worship—or command.

And then it begins.

The leeches pour from the shadows, writhing across the floor, twisting and fusing together as if alive with purpose. The room around him darkens, the air thick with the sound of slick flesh and wet movement. The creatures merge, building and building until they form the outline of a man again—the same monstrous figure that hunted Rebecca on the train.

Birkin steps back instinctively, realization dawning across his face. His voice drops to a whisper. “Dr. Marcus?”

The resurrected man—half human, half nightmare—opens his eyes.

“Ten years ago,” he hisses, “Dr. Marcus was murdered by Umbrella.” His gaze burns through the camera lens, past the glass, right into the men watching. “You helped them, didn’t you?”

The accusation hangs in the air like a curse.

Wesker’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes flick toward Birkin, who looks momentarily stricken—haunted by something deeper than guilt.

Then the feed cuts.

The monitors crackle, the image of Marcus dissolving into static. Only the echo of his laughter remains—low and triumphant, seeping into the sterile silence.

—

Rebecca wades through a shallow pool, the murky water swirling around her knees. The air is heavy with the scent of damp metal and mildew. She’s almost at the edge when a violent crash rips through the chamber.

The wall bursts open—stone and metal exploding outward—and a monstrous centipede bursts through the grate. It’s massive, its slick, armored body glinting under the dim light.

Before Rebecca can scream, its countless legs wrap around her, pulling her up into the air. She thrashes, kicking against the thing’s cold exoskeleton.

“Billy!”

Her voice cracks as she’s flung about like a rag doll.

Billy races in from the corridor, gun already drawn. “Rebecca!”

He fires, bullets ripping through the creature’s hide. The monster shrieks—a high, unnatural sound that vibrates in the bones. Finally, after a last spasm of resistance, the beast convulses and collapses in a grotesque heap, its limbs twitching before falling still.

Billy rushes to her side, gripping her shoulders. “Rebecca! Are you all right?”

Rebecca catches her breath, trembling but conscious. “Yes… thank you.”

They both turn to look at the fallen monster, its corpse steaming faintly in the chill air.

Billy exhales. “I hate bugs.”

Rebecca manages a breathless laugh. “You and me both.”

—

Hours—or maybe just minutes—later, the two find themselves working in silent synchrony. The ancient clock finally ticks again after Billy replaces the broken gear. A hollow clang echoes through the halls as all the locked doors click open somewhere in the distance.

Each sound feels like a heartbeat. One more step deeper into the nightmare.

—

In the dim light of the conference room, the crossed swords of the knight statues slide apart with a mechanical groan as Rebecca enters the code. The sound reverberates through the walls like an old wound reopening.

A door unlocks. Another path forward.

But neither of them trusts what lies beyond it.

—

Later, Billy leans heavily against the wall as Rebecca studies the massive chessboard dominating the room. She squints at the smaller board on the table nearby and starts moving the pieces one by one, mirroring the setup.

With the final move, a small click echoes—and the wall shudders open to reveal a hidden compartment.

Rebecca smiles faintly. “Looks like we’re getting good at this.”

Billy shakes his head. “Or the place is just tired of fighting us.”

—

Together, they place the Angel and Devil statues on the ancient scales. A heavy rumble answers their action, and the enormous portrait of Dr. James Marcus slowly descends into the floor—revealing a hidden passage shrouded in dust and darkness.

The air that spills out is cold. Old.

Rebecca stares into the opening. “This place just keeps getting worse.”

Billy glances at her. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

Still, they move forward—because there’s nowhere else to go.

—

Rebecca braces herself as Billy crouches and laces his fingers together. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He lifts her easily, his strength effortless despite the exhaustion written across his face.

“I’m almost there,” she grunts, squeezing through the narrow vent.

“Glad I could be of service.” Billy’s voice drips with sarcasm, but the hint of warmth beneath it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Inside, Rebecca drops into a nightmare.

The room is a chamber of horrors—metal hooks, rusted restraints, bloodstains dried to brown on the floor. A torture room.

She swallows hard, fighting down the wave of nausea. Whoever worked here hadn’t been human in a long time.

—

A camera blinks in the corner of the room, its red light pulsing softly. On the other side of the lens, the strange man watches. The same man who spoke through the speakers. His voice drips with mocking delight.

“You are wasting your time,” he purrs. “I have already claimed this place for myself… which means you are trespassing. And I am very territorial.”

He laughs, and the sound crawls through the air like the slither of leeches.

Somewhere deep in the facility, a door slides open with a metallic shriek. Something stirs—a mass of movement, screeching, alive.

—

As Billy and Rebecca make their way deeper into the derelict training facility, the silence grows oppressive — the kind that hums in the ears and feels alive. The air is thick with decay and the faint metallic scent of rusted blood. Flickering lights illuminate long, sterile corridors that were once pristine. Now, they are littered with overturned desks, broken clipboards, and rotting lab equipment. The walls are lined with framed photographs of bright-eyed teenagers, each proudly bearing the Umbrella insignia on their uniforms. Some of the frames are cracked; others have fallen and shattered, their glass splintering across the dusty floor.

It’s supposed to be a training school—a place where the “gifted” were molded into Umbrella’s future. But as Rebecca flips through old staff memos and laboratory reports she finds scattered across the classrooms, her expression hardens. The language is clinical, detached. “Subject 003A failed to respond to viral injection.” “Subject 005B—terminated due to instability.” Each document is dated decades ago. Each name belongs to a child.

Billy watches her from the corner of the room, his jaw tightening. The smell of rot seems to thicken with every page turned. Then they find the elevator—its “B1” and “B2” markings scratched nearly to illegibility. The air below is colder. The lights flicker weaker.

The first basement level is bad enough. The floors are slick with long-dried blood, the walls clawed with deep gouges—claw marks, desperate and uneven. Metal restraints hang from the ceiling, some still locked, others twisted and snapped. In the far corner lies an operating table surrounded by shattered vials and syringes. A medical journal lies open nearby, stained brown with time. Rebecca reads a line aloud, voice trembling slightly:

“Further experimentation on adolescent subjects continues. Viral tolerance improving. Emotional resistance is still high.”

They both fall silent.

Then come the sounds — the dragging of feet, the low, hungry moans echoing from the darkness ahead. The creatures that lurch from the shadows wear the tatters of Umbrella trainee uniforms. Their skin has long since greyed, but faint traces of youth still cling to their faces — small, delicate bones, thin wrists. The realization hits like a physical blow. These weren’t soldiers or test animals. They were kids.

The second basement is worse — a chamber that looks less like a laboratory and more like a shrine to madness. The walls glisten with dried blood and black mold. Hooks hang from the ceiling. There are chains, restraints, and a rusted drain in the floor where something unspeakable once gathered. Rebecca has to look away. Billy doesn’t. He’s seen hell before, and this looks a lot like it.

But the horror isn’t just in the past. Some of the zombies that attack them wear more recent uniforms — the body armor and insignia of the Umbrella Security Service, the USS. These are fresh. Birkin’s men, sent to “refurbish” the school, based on the report that they managed to dig up. Billy curses under his breath when he spots the half-rotted logo on a fallen technician’s vest. 

“Guess the place didn’t need much remodeling after all,” he mutters darkly, reloading his handgun.

As they press on, scattered notes and digital logs begin to piece together a grim history — one not just of scientific ambition, but betrayal. The tension between Dr. James Marcus and Oswell E. Spencer—Umbrella’s founder—runs like a vein through the records. Letters written in haste and anger reveal the truth: Marcus had discovered the Progenitor Virus from a flower long before Spencer took credit for it. The T-Virus, the cornerstone of Umbrella’s empire, the virus that’s responsible for all these zombies, was Marcus’s child—one Spencer intended to steal.

A final document, typed and unsigned, reads: 

“Spencer grows impatient. Orders authorized. Marcus’s removal is imminent.”

The ink trails off, as if the writer had been interrupted mid-sentence.

As Rebecca lowers the page, a faint static crackles from the ceiling. Billy looks up. A broken security camera whirs back to life, its red light flickering like an eye opening. Somewhere, in a hidden control room, someone—or something—is watching.

In another wing of the facility, a cloaked figure leans over a flickering monitor. The face illuminated by the screen is young—too young—yet disturbingly familiar to the photos Rebecca had seen. His lips curl in something between amusement and rage as his gaze locks onto the live feed of Rebecca walking the hall.

“You’re trespassing… little lamb.”

He flips a switch.

Deep within the ventilation shafts and holding pens, metal doors shudder open. From the darkness, guttural snarls echo through the walls. The Eliminators—grotesque, mutated primates bred for slaughter—burst free from their containment cages, claws scraping against steel as they sprint toward the scent of life. It’s a twisted parody of life. A monkey, but not anymore. Its eyes burn red, its flesh sickly and patchy with infection.

Rebecca stiffens as the sound reaches her. Billy raises his weapon, his expression sharpening.

It shrieks and leaps at her.

“Ah—!” Rebecca barely manages to dodge before it slams into her, claws tearing into her shoulder. Its teeth sink deep, hot pain flaring down her arm. She screams, grabbing the creature and slamming it against the floor.

It recovers instantly, snarling.

“Get off me!” she gasps, rolling aside just as it lunges again.

The floor beneath her groans. Cracks splinter outward.

Then—

The ground collapses.

—

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, cold and unfeeling, casting sterile light over the endless white corridor. Every footstep echoes against the marble floor, a rhythmic, almost mechanical sound. Wesker walks with deliberate calm, his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back, while Birkin hurries to keep up, clutching a folder stuffed with reports and data sheets.

The papers tremble slightly in Birkin’s hands—not from fear, but from agitation. His mind races faster than his mouth can keep up.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” he mutters, voice sharp with disbelief. “Do you honestly believe this to be the real identity of that crazy young man? Impossible. But—if somehow it is true…” His steps falter for half a second, and he looks to Wesker, eyes wild with the kind of scientific panic that only comes when a foundation of logic starts to crack. “Then Umbrella will be finished.”

Wesker doesn’t look at him. His sunglasses reflect nothing but the sterile white of the hallway. “If the old conspiracy against Dr. Marcus is revealed,” he says coolly, “Mr. Spencer’s career will be over. Not to mention ours too.”

His tone is level—almost amused—but there’s a shadow underneath. A tightening of the jaw. A glint of something sharp behind his unreadable calm.

They reach the elevator at the end of the hall. The polished metal doors gleam like the surface of a mirror. Wesker presses the button, and for a moment, the only sound is the faint mechanical hum of the elevator descending.

“So,” he says quietly, as if he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to say it, “the time has come at last.”

Birkin’s brows knit together. “What are you going to do?”

The elevator chimes, soft and mocking. Wesker turns his head slightly toward him, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his glasses.

“I will simply say goodbye to Umbrella.”

The words fall like a gunshot. Calm, precise, final.

Birkin freezes, blinking as if he’s not sure he heard correctly. “You’re serious.” His voice trembles now, disbelief and frustration bleeding through. “Albert, you can’t be serious!”

The doors slide open with a hiss. The light inside the elevator spills across Wesker’s sharp profile.

“The biological weapon of utilizing the T-Virus has almost been completed,” Wesker continues smoothly, as though he’s giving a routine briefing rather than announcing betrayal. “Our only remaining task is to acquire combat data.”

Birkin’s expression twists—offense, pride, desperation, all warring beneath his eyes. “You can’t be serious!” he repeats, louder this time. “I refuse to abandon my work!”

His voice echoes down the empty hall. His grip on the folder tightens until the papers bend and crumple. “I’ve finished my research on the T-Virus,” he insists, “but I need a little more time to complete the more powerful G-Virus.”

Wesker tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Do as you wish.”

He steps inside the elevator, the movement smooth and practiced. “I will follow my initial plan,” he says, pressing the button for the lower levels, “and lure the S.T.A.R.S. members into Spencer’s mansion.” He glances at Birkin over the top of his sunglasses, eyes like polished obsidian. “Their superior combat training should make them perfect test subjects.”

A small, satisfied chuckle escapes him—a low, deliberate sound that vibrates through the sterile air as the elevator doors begin to close.

Birkin glares after him, chest heaving, the scientist’s arrogance barely masking the storm building beneath.

“Fine,” he snaps, his voice slicing through the silence. “In the meantime, something must be done about that madman.” His words grow darker, lower. “As I recall, the Umbrella Research Center is equipped with a self-destruct device in the basement.”

He adjusts his glasses, expression settling into grim determination. “I’ll find it. Set it off. And annihilate the place to nothing more than a mass of rubble.”

The elevator doors seal shut with a final clink.

Birkin is left standing alone in the fluorescent hall. 

He exhales slowly, clutching the folder against his chest. Behind his calm, there’s the unmistakable spark of ambition—the same spark that will one day burn cities to ash.

—

Rebecca’s fingers ache as they cling to the jagged edge of the pit. Her knuckles are white, the skin of her palms split and raw from scraping against the stone. Below her, the darkness yawns wide—bottomless, hungry. Dust trickles down the walls as the structure trembles faintly, the distant echo of shifting machinery reverberating through the old Umbrella facility.

“I—can’t—hold on—” she gasps, her voice breaking.

Her boots scramble for purchase, soles slipping against the slick metal rim. For one heart-stopping second, her grip falters—

—and a strong hand seizes her wrist.

“Rebecca!” Billy’s voice cuts through the silence like thunder. His muscles strain as he pulls, his teeth clenched with effort. “Hang on, I’ll pull you up!”

Rebecca’s breath catches, her free hand shooting up to grasp his arm. The veins in his forearm stand out as he yanks her upward, dragging her over the lip of the pit and onto solid ground. She collapses beside him, coughing, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Thank you,” she breathes out, voice small but sincere.

Billy exhales and sits back, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Don’t mention it,” he mutters, offering her a faint smirk. “Just keeping my word. We promised to cooperate, remember?”

Before Rebecca can respond, her radio crackles to life with a burst of static. She startles, quickly unclipping it from her belt.

“This is Rebecca. Over.”

“Rebecca, this is Enrico.” The familiar voice, calm yet edged with tension, comes through the radio. “Have you managed to locate Coen yet? Over.”

Rebecca’s eyes flick instinctively to Billy. He meets her gaze without flinching—silent, steady, a question unspoken between them.

Enrico’s voice sharpens. “Rebecca, answer me.”

She hesitates for just a heartbeat, then lowers her eyes and speaks quietly. “No, sir. I’ve not found him yet. I’ll continue to search for him. Over.”

She holsters the radio with a small, shaky sigh.

Billy rises to his feet, dusting his pants off. “Rebecca.”

She looks up at him, shoulders stiff. She forces out a dry laugh, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “So much for my great law enforcement career.” A pause. Then, quieter, “Oh well. I probably won’t live long enough to worry about it.”

She straightens, turning toward him, her face open and earnest in the dim light. “Billy… I just need to know. I need to know the truth.” Her hands clench at her sides. “Did you really kill twenty-three people? I won’t judge you. I just want to know.”

Billy’s jaw tightens. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then—slowly—he exhales.

“It was around this time last year,” he begins, voice rough, low with exhaustion.

The air is hot. Heavy. The suffocating humidity of the African jungle clings to skin and clothing alike. Insects buzz around rotting leaves as soldiers trudge through the dense underbrush, rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Our unit was ordered to Africa,” Billy narrates, his voice echoing faintly over the memory. “We were told to intervene in a civil war. Our mission was to raid a guerilla hideout deep in the jungle.”

Gunfire cracks in the distance. Screams blend with the roar of the forest.

“But the hideout…” Billy’s voice darkens. “It didn’t exist.”

Soldiers, weary and hollow-eyed, slogging through the mud. The others are dead—taken by the heat, the insects, the enemy. Only four remain.

Rebecca listens in silence, standing before Billy in the dim, rusted dungeon chamber. The walls seem to close in, every drip of water echoing like a heartbeat.

“There was no guerilla base,” Billy continues, the anger in his tone simmering beneath his restraint. “The idiots in charge had us operating on the wrong intel. But we couldn’t just go home empty-handed.”

His eyes flick up, burning. “Our leader ordered us to attack a village.”

Gunfire rips through the air. Children crying. A woman’s scream, cut short.

“Get rid of them!” the commander bellows, his voice hoarse with command. “Kill them all!”

“Please, sir! Cease fire immediately!” Billy shouts, his rifle lowered, his hands trembling.

“Shut up!”

The butt of the commander’s weapon crashes into Billy’s face, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

“Do it!”

The gunfire that follows is deafening. A blur of red and smoke.

Billy’s scream drowns beneath it. “No! Don’t! Stop!”

Rebecca swallows hard, the weight of the confession pressing into her chest. Her eyes search his face for something—remorse, guilt, anger—but find only weariness.

“So…” she finally whispers. “Did you execute those innocent people?”

Billy looks away. The tension in his shoulders hardens like armor.

“Forget about it,” he mutters. “It doesn’t matter anymore. That was then. This is now.” He moves to leave, his footsteps echoing across the cold floor. “Besides,” he adds, “you said you wouldn’t judge me.”

Rebecca watches him walk away, something twisting painfully in her chest. “I’m not judging you,” she says firmly. “But it does matter.”

Her voice cracks slightly, but she presses on. “My team… they think you killed those MPs in the van. But I don’t think you did.”

She steps closer, determination hardening her tone. “It was those zombie dogs, wasn’t it? When they attacked the van—you were able to escape. Isn’t that right?”

Billy stops in his tracks. For a moment, he doesn’t turn around.

“You don’t get it,” he says quietly, voice flat.

He finally faces her. His expression is calm—but his eyes are the eyes of a man who’s stopped believing in redemption.

“I’ve only got two choices left,” he says, every word deliberate. “Either report to the Marines and serve out my sentence and then they will finally kill me…”

He looks past her, toward the cracked stone archway leading deeper into the ruins.

“…or keep on running for as long as I can.”

His gaze lingers there for a heartbeat longer—then he walks forward into the shadows.

Rebecca stands alone in the flickering light, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

—

Billy and Rebecca make their way through the broken halls of the factory until they come upon what was once a church—a decaying skeleton of stone and rot standing defiantly against the ruin around it. The building’s stained-glass windows are shattered, the saints and angels reduced to shards that glitter weakly under their flashlights. The heavy air smells of mold and old incense, twisted together with the sharp tang of death.

The pews lie overturned. The altar is cracked down the middle, blackened candles melted into grotesque shapes. Rebecca pauses beside a crumbling statue of a weeping angel, her fingers brushing the cold marble as if searching for some trace of the sanctity it once held. Billy doesn’t speak; he only gestures toward the rusted elevator tucked behind the altar, half-hidden beneath a drape of rotted velvet.

They descend again—down into the bowels of the church, into another world where faith has no place.

The elevator shudders to a stop in the heart of a laboratory that feels older than the earth itself. The lights overhead flicker weakly, casting the room in a perpetual twilight. The air is cold and sterile, but the metallic scent of blood cuts through the chemical tang, so thick Rebecca can almost taste it. Machines whine faintly in the corners, their functions long forgotten. A single gurney lies overturned near the center, its restraints broken and stained dark.

As they move deeper inside, the walls close in—metal and concrete lined with shelves stacked with vials, jars, and old data logs. Rebecca’s gloved fingers tremble as she brushes the dust off a glass case, revealing the Umbrella insignia branded into the steel. It’s Marcus’ handiwork again—his experiments, his madness, his cruelty, all preserved like a monument to obsession.

When she ventures upstairs, the corridor opens into an auxiliary research room—and what she sees there steals the breath from her lungs.

Dozens of glass capsules line the walls, each filled with a viscous, greenish fluid that shimmers in the low light. Floating inside them are bodies—men, women, and children. Human victims. Their faces are peaceful, almost as if asleep, but the tubes snaking from their mouths and the surgical scars crisscrossing their chests betray the horror of what was done to them.

Rebecca steps closer, her reflection rippling across the surface of one capsule. The figure inside is a teenage boy. His eyes are half-open, his skin waxy pale, veins faintly visible beneath the surface. She stumbles back, the bile rising in her throat.

Beside the capsules are others—smaller, opaque, marked only with numbers. When she wipes the condensation away, she realizes what’s inside. Hearts. Lungs. Kidneys. Organs harvested, labeled, and stored like spare parts.

The nearby operating room is worse.

Rebecca enters hesitantly, her breath fogging in the cold air. The floor is slick under her boots. Rusted surgical tools lie scattered across the bloodstained table, and the overhead light swings lazily from its chain, creaking with each slow arc. The “thing” lying on the gurney is no longer recognizable as human—a mutilated form, sewn together from pieces that should never have met. Its ribs have been split open, its head caved in as though someone lost patience halfway through the procedure.

Her flashlight catches on the morgue’s open door. Inside, rows of body bags fill every available surface, stacked on top of one another, some torn open to reveal what lies beneath. Limbs jut from the piles at unnatural angles. The smell hits her like a physical blow, copper and rot thick enough to burn her throat.

Billy finds her there, frozen, staring. His jaw is set, eyes cold but heavy with disgust. He doesn’t say a word, only rests a hand briefly on her shoulder before moving ahead.

The shelves in the adjoining room are stocked with poisonous chemicals—arsenic compounds, formaldehyde, and acids used for tissue breakdown. Rebecca can almost see Marcus in her mind’s eye, calmly mixing death at a laboratory bench, humming to himself while entire lives ended screaming behind glass.

Then—the silence breaks.

A shuffling sound echoes from the far corridor, followed by a wet, dragging noise. Rebecca and Billy turn, weapons raised. Out from the darkness, the shapes of the Delta team stagger forward—what remains of them, anyway. Their uniforms are tattered, badges hanging by threads, their faces pale and sunken with rot.

But there’s more.

The room beyond them tells the story of a massacre not caused by leeches. Bullet holes line the walls. The air still smells faintly of gunpowder. One of the infected corpses has been half-crushed in a steel door, another pinned against the wall with a broken metal rod through its chest.

And then Rebecca sees it—the gas chamber.

The viewing window is cracked, the light inside still flickering weakly. Pressed against the glass is the body of a man, his skin burned and blistered from within, his eyes staring wide in eternal terror. The control switch beside the chamber is flipped on.

Rebecca lowers her gun, her breath trembling. “Someone… someone turned it on.”

The horror isn’t just in the monsters, or in the experiments. It’s in the choice.

For every leech, for every mutation, there’s a human hand behind it—someone who decided that life could be erased, that a scream was worth recording.

And in that moment, standing amidst the wreckage of science and sanctity, Rebecca Chambers finally understands the full extent of Marcus’ madness—and just how far Umbrella’s rot has spread.

—

The dim light of the laboratory flickers weakly, throwing long shadows against the cracked tile walls. Dust hangs thick in the air, stirred by Billy’s slow, deliberate movements as he rifles through a pile of forgotten papers and debris. The faint hum of broken machinery echoes somewhere deeper in the complex, like a heartbeat that refuses to die.

His fingers brush something smooth beneath a scatter of files—leather. Old, worn, and bound by age. He pulls it free. The corners are frayed, the spine cracked. When he opens it, the scent of mildew and faint cologne rises—memories preserved in paper.

It’s a photo album.

Billy turns the brittle pages carefully. The photographs, yellowed and curled, depict a much younger man in a white lab coat, his expression stern yet proud. His name, handwritten beneath the first photo, makes Billy pause.

James Marcus.

He studies the image, eyes narrowing. The resemblance is uncanny — the same sharp jawline, the same piercing gaze. Yet, the face he’d seen earlier — that cloaked figure in the darkness — had been far too young for a man long dead.

Billy leans back, exhaling softly. “Judging from the age…” he mutters to himself, his voice low and rough from disuse. “That son of a bitch could be Marcus’ son… or grandson.”

The thought chills him more than the cold air. Because whatever that man — or thing — was, it had the same eyes. The kind that didn’t belong to the living.

He snaps the album shut. The echo is sharp, final.

—

Later, Billy moves through the underground lab, his footsteps cautious but sure. The air grows colder the deeper he goes, the light weaker. Then, he stops the passage ahead opens to a vast metal chamber.

And there it is.

An aerial cable car hangs suspended by thick, rusted cables, swaying slightly as though disturbed by a breath of wind. The machine looks ancient but intact. For the first time in hours, something like hope flickers across Billy’s expression.

He climbs over the railing, boots landing with a clang on the platform below. His gaze sweeps over the control panel, and despite the decay around him, the system seems operational. It might just work.

“Maybe I could use this,” he murmurs, touching the cold metal.

Static crackles suddenly in his ear—his radio flickers to life. “Rebecca here. Over.”

Billy presses the receiver, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Billy. I found something here that might make you happy—it’s an aerial cable car.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and when Rebecca replies, her relief is almost palpable. “Really? That’s great! Now we can get out.”

“Yep,” Billy answers, his tone lighter than before. He looks up at the car again, the faint smile softening his usual hardened expression. “Let’s regroup as soon as possible.”

“Roger.”

The radio clicks off, leaving him alone once more with the silence.

For a moment, Billy just stands there, watching the cable car sway gently in the shadows. The idea of escape feels strange—like a dream he’s not sure he deserves to wake from. But as he exhales, his expression steadies, resolve returning to his eyes.

He turns toward the dark hallway that will lead him back to Rebecca.

—

The air is heavy and damp when Billy and Rebecca finally make it to the steel walkway leading toward the aerial cable car. The faint hum of machinery echoes through the dimly lit corridor, and for a fleeting moment, there’s something close to relief in the air. Rebecca exhales softly—the first sound of ease she’s made in hours. The car stands before them, still functional despite the rot consuming the facility. It gleams faintly in the flickering light, a metal promise of escape.

Billy rests one hand on the door handle, glancing back at Rebecca. “Guess this is our ticket outta here.”

But before Rebecca can answer, something shifts.

A faint skitter. A shadow ripples across the ceiling.

Rebecca’s head jerks up just in time to see the mass—black, quick, alive—sliding along the top of the car. Her breath catches in her throat. “Billy—!”

She doesn’t finish.

The creature drops from the ceiling with a shriek that tears through the silence. A blur of fur, fangs, and rage crashes toward them. Rebecca shoves Billy aside on instinct, her smaller frame colliding with his shoulder just as claws slice through the air where he stood a moment ago. Pain blooms hot and sharp as the creature’s talons rake across her ribs.

Rebecca gasps and staggers back, clutching her bleeding side. The Eliminator—its fur patchy, eyes milky and foam flecking its mouth—screeches and turns on Billy. Its claws glint under the dim light as it launches at him.

Billy catches the beast mid-air, gripping its wiry arms and struggling to keep its snapping teeth away from his face. The animal thrashes violently, muscles bulging beneath its diseased skin. Billy’s arms strain as the creature claws at him, its nails scraping across his forearm.

“Argh—damn it!” Billy grunts, twisting his body to throw it off.

“Billy!” Rebecca cries out, stumbling forward despite the searing pain in her side. She reaches toward him—

—and too late.

The creature’s momentum slams into Billy with enough force to break his balance. His boots skid on the grated platform, the railing hits him at the back of the knees, and for one dizzying second, he’s suspended in air. His eyes meet Rebecca’s—wide and startled.

Then he’s gone.

“Billy!” Rebecca’s scream echoes through the steel chamber as he falls into the abyss below. The sound of his body hitting anything doesn’t come. Only the emptiness answers back.

Rebecca grips the railing, knuckles white, breath coming fast and ragged. “Billy!” she calls again, her voice cracking. But there’s nothing below her except blackness—the endless dark swallowing the world whole.

Her heart pounds so loudly she almost doesn’t hear it—the slick, wet noise behind her.

She turns slowly.

Something massive moves in the shadows of the corridor. The air grows thick and foul, a humid mixture of decay and rot. The stench of leeches.

Rebecca’s flashlight trembles as she lifts it and freezes.

The thing standing before her used to be human. Barely. Its skin glistens like melted wax, veins bulging beneath a layer of writhing, living leeches that pulse and shift across its body. Its face—what remains of one—drips away in strings of dark fluid. The creature breathes wetly, a chorus of leeches whispering as it steps forward.

Rebecca’s breath hitches. “Oh… God.”

Before she can react, the lights above her flicker. Once. Twice. Then — darkness.

The cable car’s power dies with a low groan, machinery grinding to a halt. The lights along the walkway blink out one by one until only Rebecca’s trembling flashlight cuts through the void.

She backs away, hand clutching her wound, eyes darting to the motionless cable car. It sits there in the dark like a tomb.

The creature lets out a gurgling hiss and lunges. Rebecca dives aside, rolling across the floor and losing her flashlight. The beam spins wildly before landing on the creature’s featureless face as it snarls.

A metal fuse lies on the ground nearby, coated in a mucous sheen—and the moment Rebecca forces it back into place, sparks flash. The hum of power returns—faint, fragile. The overhead lights blink to life one by one, revealing streaks of blood smeared across the walls. The cable car jolts forward, the sound almost deafening after the silence.

Rebecca stumbles toward it, clutching her bleeding side. Her body screams with pain, but she doesn’t stop. Not now. Not after coming this far.

As she leaps into the car, the door seals behind her with a hydraulic hiss, the creature’s enraged roar echoing behind her. The platform falls away beneath her as the cable car glides forward into the tunnel—a lonely, creaking vessel carrying her away from the ruin that used to be Umbrella’s pride.

The view outside is nothing but darkness.

Rebecca collapses to the floor for a long moment, trembling, chest heaving. The acrid smoke burns her lungs as she forces herself to sit up. Pain blooms sharp and immediate along her ribs, a reminder of the Eliminator’s claws from earlier—three ragged slashes cutting through her uniform, already darkened with dried and fresh blood.

Gritting her teeth, she shrugs off her backpack and digs through it with shaking hands. Her fingers find a roll of bandage and a small spray canister of antiseptic. The sting hits instantly as she disinfects the wound, a hiss of pain escaping her lips before she can bite it back. She tears a strip of gauze with her teeth and presses it against the bleeding, wrapping it tightly around her ribs until the throbbing dulls to a manageable ache. Her breath trembles, but she forces herself to stand, one arm braced against the wall for balance.

Rebecca presses her palm against the window, whispering, “Billy… please be alive.”

The cable hums onward through the void.

—

The key clicks into place with a metallic groan, and the old machinery stirs to life. A grinding, bone-deep rumble fills the air as the massive cargo elevator awakens from years of stillness. Dust rains from the ceiling as gears turn somewhere far below. Rebecca flinches at the sound—it’s deafening after hours of silence, echoing off the concrete walls like the growl of some sleeping beast.

The platform trembles once before it begins to move. Slowly, steadily, it descends into the darkness below.

Rebecca clutches her handgun tighter, the muzzle trembling ever so slightly in her gloved hand. Her heart thunders against her ribs, matching the rhythmic clanking of the chains. The air grows colder, damper, the faint scent of rust and decay seeping from below. The emergency lights flicker over her—dim orange halos cutting through the shadows like dying embers.

She exhales shakily, whispering to herself, “Hang in there, Billy… please be alive.”

The descent feels endless. The walls blur past her in streaks of grime and shadow, and she can almost swear she hears something breathing in the dark. When the elevator finally jolts to a halt, the sound makes her teeth rattle.

Rebecca steps off cautiously.

The laboratory before her is nothing like the train or the training school above—it’s colder, more sterile, but no less horrifying. The floor is slick with water, and the hum of machines still faintly working fills the silence. A shattered control panel flickers near the far wall, sparking intermittently like a dying heartbeat. Empty glass tanks line one side of the room, the faint outlines of what used to be human forms clinging to the fogged glass.

Rebecca forces herself not to look too closely. She’s seen enough of Umbrella’s handiwork to know that curiosity only brings nightmares.

Then—a sound.

Metal creaks. The elevator shaft behind her groans again, as if someone—or something—is coming down after her.

Rebecca freezes.

She ducks behind a nearby console, the cold metal biting into her palms. Her heart pounds hard enough to shake her entire frame, breath coming out in shallow bursts that cloud faintly in the stagnant air. Footsteps echo above her—slow, measured, the unmistakable sound of someone descending the stairs. The elevator halts with a hiss of hydraulic pressure, a whisper of air shifting through the cavernous lab.

Rebecca peers around the corner, finger trembling against the trigger.

A man steps out of the elevator. His flashlight sweeps across the platform, slicing through the darkness—and for one suspended moment, the world stops.

The insignia on his uniform glints under the harsh beam. The cut of his shoulder straps. The silhouette of a sidearm drawn and ready.

Her heart leaps to her throat before her voice can catch up. “Don’t shoot!”

The command echoes louder than intended, sharp against the stillness.

Instantly, the gun pivots toward her—but then freezes mid-motion as recognition dawns.

“Rebecca?”

Her chest tightens at the sound of his voice.

“Enrico…” she breathes, standing up fully from behind the console. Her gun lowers, her arms trembling as adrenaline drains out all at once.

He stares for a heartbeat, disbelief flickering across his face—then relief floods in, softening the hard lines carved by stress. “Rebecca,” he exhales, shoulders sagging. The weapon drops to his side. “You’re alive.”

For a fleeting second, she almost laughs—half relief, half exhaustion. “You’re alive,” she echoes, and the words nearly break her.

It feels surreal, seeing another member of Bravo Team again after so much blood, so many screams swallowed by the forest and the train’s wreckage. The world had shrunk to monsters and corridors and the sound of her own heartbeat—but now, here he is.

Enrico crosses the distance in two quick strides, scanning her for injuries with the steady, protective gaze of a commander who’s already lost too many people. “Are you hurt?”

Rebecca shakes her head, brushing a trembling hand across her cheek. “I’m fine,” she manages, though her voice is brittle. “Where is everybody? Did you find the others?”

Enrico’s flashlight sweeps across the room—over shattered consoles, cracked tanks, and lifeless corpses floating in broken containment units. His jaw tightens. “They should have arrived here before me,” he mutters, low. Then he turns back to her, his eyes serious. “You haven’t seen them?”

Rebecca hesitates. And then she feels it—the sharp sting of the memory, the heat behind her eyes that no amount of discipline can suppress.

“I… I saw Edward.” Her voice falters.

Enrico’s brow furrows. “You saw him?”

She swallows hard. Her throat feels raw. “He didn’t make it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, reverent. The sound of the broken machinery hums faintly in the background, a mournful dirge to fill the space between them.

Enrico’s expression crumples—not dramatically, but in a subtle, devastating way that only someone used to loss could manage. His lips press into a tight line, and his gaze drops to the floor. “Edward…” he murmurs, the name tasting bitter.

Rebecca blinks hard, but the tears threaten anyway. She can still see him—the pained grimace as he handed her his gun, the blood staining his uniform, the look in his eyes when he told her to survive.

“He—he was already bitten,” Her voice breaks. “I didn’t even have time to—”

Enrico’s gloved hand finds her shoulder, steady and firm. “You did what you could,” he says quietly, voice roughened by grief. “That’s more than most could have done.”

She looks up at him, blinking through tears, and nods weakly. “He was brave,” she says, as though saying it aloud could make it true in all the right ways.

“He was one of the best,” Enrico replies. His jaw clenches again, and for a moment, he looks away toward the flickering lights. “We’ll make sure none of this was for nothing.”

Rebecca breathes in, deep and shuddering, and forces herself to nod.

Enrico exhales and gestures toward the far corridor, his composure snapping back into focus like a drawn blade. “If we go straight from here,” he says, voice firm again, “we should reach an old mansion—Umbrella’s main research site in this region.”

He turns to lead the way, but Rebecca doesn’t move.

“Wait!” Her voice catches, urgent.

Enrico stops and looks back.

“I’ve got to find Billy.”

His expression freezes. “Billy Coen? You mean you’ve found that criminal?”

Rebecca nods, her tone firm. “Yes—but we got separated, and—”

“No point worrying about him,” Enrico cuts her off, his voice carrying the blunt finality of a commander. “He won’t make it. Come on, let’s go.”

“Sir, please.” Rebecca steps forward, eyes fierce, almost pleading. “I need to find him. Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you.”

Enrico exhales slowly, his shoulders rising and falling. For a moment, the only sound between them is the faint hum of the dying generators. Finally, he sighs, holsters his weapon, and gives her a long, steady look—the kind that says you’re too stubborn for your own good, kid.

“Rebecca…” He shakes his head, a hint of reluctant pride softening his tone. “All right. Just be careful.”

She nods, grateful beyond words.

Enrico turns, drawing his firearm once more, and strides down the corridor. His footsteps echo through the cold metal halls until the sound fades completely.

Rebecca stands there for a moment, surrounded by silence again. Then she tightens her grip on her weapon and whispers to the empty air:

“Hang on, Billy. I’m coming.”

—

Rebecca slides the key into the final lock. The elevator panel hums faintly in acknowledgment, gears grinding in the walls as the ancient lift begins its slow ascent toward her. She exhales shakily, lowering her gun for the first time in what feels like hours.

Her fingers ache from clutching it. Her uniform is torn, stained with dirt, blood, and the chemical stench of Umbrella’s sins. But there’s a faint flicker of relief in her chest—the way out.

The distant thrum of machinery fills the narrow chamber. The elevator is coming. She just needs to wait. Just needs to hold on.

Then—

A sound.

It’s faint at first, like gravel shifting underfoot. Rebecca’s gaze snaps to the pile of debris stacked to her left, remnants of the factory’s collapse. A few stones tumble loose, bouncing down to the floor with hollow thuds.

She frowns, gun rising instinctively.

Another tremor shakes the ground. Then, with a sickening crack, the top of the pile moves.

Rebecca steps back, eyes widening—

—and something massive pushes through the rubble.

A foot, enormous and deathly pale, slams onto the metal floor with a wet smack. The flesh looks almost translucent, like it’s been carved from wax, muscles twitching beneath as if struggling to obey their own body.

Rebecca’s breath catches. “What… what is that?”

The thing that crawls free of the debris doesn’t answer. It roars.

It’s a deep, vibrating sound that tears through the air, shaking the walls and the very ground she stands on. The creature’s skin gleams under the flickering light—white, sinewy, stretched too tight. Its muscles spasm violently as it lurches forward, towering over her like a living nightmare.

A single, milky eye locks onto her.

Rebecca’s instincts scream before she does. She dives aside just as a massive claw arcs through the air, slamming into the metal floor where she’d been standing. The impact throws her off her feet, shards of steel scattering like shrapnel.

Her gun skids across the floor. She scrambles for it, panting, mind racing. Move, Rebecca, move!

The Tyrant—because there’s no other word for it—staggers toward her, its grotesque muscles convulsing with each unsteady step. It roars again, a bellow that rattles her teeth, and swings one titanic arm down in a brutal arc.

Rebecca rolls beneath it, narrowly escaping as the claws tear through a pipe. Steam bursts into the air, scalding hot and thick. She ducks through the mist, heart pounding.

Her fingers close around her gun.

She spins, raises it, fires—three shots.

They barely slow it down. The rounds sink into its flesh, but the monster just keeps coming, bloodless and enraged.

Rebecca stumbles backward, searching frantically for an exit—but the elevator door is still closed, its metal shutters sliding down like a cruel joke.

“No—no, no, no—”

The door seals shut.

She’s trapped.

The Tyrant takes another lumbering step, its shadow stretching across the floor until it swallows her whole. Rebecca feels the vibration in her bones, the oppressive stench of rot filling her lungs.

Think. Move. Don’t freeze.

She darts to the side, ducking behind a support column. The beast’s claws crash through it a heartbeat later, splintering concrete like paper. Shards rain down around her. Rebecca fires again, aiming for its exposed chest—one round, two, three, click.

Empty.

The creature swings wildly, smashing into machinery. Sparks explode across the floor, the stench of burning oil mixing with the sour air. Rebecca dives, rolls, and in one desperate motion grabs a fallen grenade from a nearby corpse.

Her hands shake—but her aim doesn’t.

She pulls the pin, throws.

The explosion hits the monster square in the torso. A deafening roar fills the chamber as fire consumes it, the shockwave throwing Rebecca to the ground. She slams hard into the wall, vision swimming, ears ringing.

The Tyrant staggers, smoke pouring off its ruined body. It collapses with a guttural scream, claws scraping the floor one last time before it crashes into the metal with a thunderous, final boom.

Silence.

Rebecca lies there for a long moment, trembling, chest heaving. The acrid smoke burns her lungs as she forces herself to sit up.

The monster doesn’t move.

She lowers her weapon slowly, breath coming in short, shuddering bursts. For a heartbeat, she allows herself to feel—the terror, the exhaustion, the grief pressing down like a weight on her ribs.

The elevator chimes softly behind her.

Rebecca turns toward the sound. The metal doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, warm light spilling out like the faint promise of safety.

She looks back at the fallen Tyrant one last time, its body still twitching faintly, steam rising from the burns.

“Rest in hell,” she whispers hoarsely.

And then she steps onto the elevator.

—

Elsewhere, far above, a screen flickers to life.

Static hums for a moment before clearing, revealing Rebecca’s small, dirt-streaked figure standing in the glow of the open elevator.

Someone watches her from the shadows of a control room—a man cloaked in black and crimson, his face pale and sharp beneath the hood. The monitors cast an eerie light across his features as his lips twist into a smirk.

Leeches writhe lazily across the glass, leaving viscous trails of slime behind. One crawls up his arm, and he strokes it absently with something disturbingly tender.

“Playtime is over,” he murmurs, voice low, velvety, and venomous.

The leech wriggles against his sleeve, and he chuckles—a hollow, broken sound that echoes through the cold lab.

“You and your friends no longer amuse me,” he continues, almost sing-song, eyes gleaming with feverish hatred. “Good riddance.”

He lifts his gaze to the screen. Rebecca disappears behind the closing elevator doors.

“Now nothing,” he whispers, smiling faintly as the lights flicker around him, “will stop me from getting my revenge.”

The laughter that follows is soft at first—almost human.

Then it twists into something that isn’t.

—

The elevator doors slide open with a metallic hiss, and Rebecca steps out into a rush of cold, wet air.

Before her stretches a narrow bridge suspended over a churning, furious river—the underground waterway roars beneath her like some living beast. The walls are slick with condensation, water dripping from the pipes overhead, and the constant thunder of the current drowns out even her own breathing.

She steadies herself, gripping the railing as the structure trembles under the force of the water below. The stench of rot and chemical runoff burns her throat, and the spray dampens her torn uniform.

Then she sees him.

“Billy!”

Her voice echoes over the roaring water. Out in the middle of the torrent, clinging to a jagged rock, is Billy Coen—half-submerged, his knuckles white against the stone. His head lifts weakly at the sound of her voice, but before he can answer—

Something moves beneath the surface.

At first, it’s only a ripple—a dark shadow gliding through the froth like a serpent. Then the water erupts.

Rebecca’s heart lurches. “Billy!”

The mass—amorphous, pulsing, alive—surges upward from the depths. It slams into Billy with terrifying force, hurling him through the air before crashing back into the river. His body hits the water hard, swept instantly into the current.

“No, Billy!”

Rebecca sprints down the bridge, boots slipping against the wet metal. She can’t see him—only the raging white of the water as it disappears into the black maw of a tunnel ahead. She leans over the edge, eyes straining in the dim light, but he’s already gone.

Her scream is swallowed by the roar of the river.

—

Rebecca doesn’t remember how long she runs. The corridors blur together—metal catwalks, dripping pipes, the echo of machinery buried beneath the surface. Every corner smells like decay. Every shadow breathes.

Her lungs burn, her ribs ache where the Eliminator tore into her, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t.

Finally, she bursts through a rusted maintenance door and finds herself in a drainage ditch, the air thick and foul. Water gushes through the grates, forming small pools along the concrete floor. And there—

“Billy!”

He lies half-submerged near the edge of the stream, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Rebecca rushes to him, dropping to her knees in the water. She hooks an arm under his shoulders and pulls him up, her fingers slipping against his soaked shirt. “Billy, come on, wake up—please.”

He coughs—once, then again—before gasping sharply, water spilling from his mouth. His eyes flicker open, dazed.

“Rebecca…” His voice is hoarse, barely audible. He looks around, disoriented. “Where… where am I?”

“You’re safe now,” she says quickly, brushing his wet hair back from his face. Her voice wavers, trembling between exhaustion and relief. “Are you okay? Can you stand?”

Billy blinks, regaining his bearings, and starts to push himself up—but something catches his eye.

He goes still.

Rebecca follows his gaze.

In the corner of the drainage ditch lies a mound of human remains—skeletal figures twisted together in grotesque stillness. The bones are stained yellow by age and chemicals, some still half-wrapped in tattered lab coats. Hollow eye sockets stare blankly at the ceiling, jaws frozen in silent screams.

Rebecca covers her mouth. “What… what could have done this?”

Billy stares, his expression hardening, though his voice carries a hollow weight when he finally answers. “They must have been used as test subjects in Marcus’ research.” He swallows, his jaw tightening. “He must have kept messing around with that virus of his…”

He trails off.

The light in his eyes shifts—replaced by something distant. Dark. He’s not seeing the skeletons anymore.

He’s seeing memory.

In his mind, there’s the flash of old concrete walls, the smell of iron and decay. Rows of corpses left to rot in ditches just like this one. He remembers the flies, the silence after the screaming stopped. His stomach turns, and a sheen of cold sweat breaks out along his brow.

“Billy?” Rebecca’s voice breaks softly through his haze, full of concern. She grips his arm, grounding him.

He blinks hard, breath shaking as he forces himself back into the present.

They’re surrounded by death—again—but Rebecca’s small hand on his sleeve feels real. Warm. Human.

He exhales slowly, nodding once. “Yeah,” he murmurs, though his voice cracks slightly. “I’m okay.”

Rebecca studies him for a long moment, worry flickering in her eyes. She doesn’t believe him—but she doesn’t press.

The silence between them is filled by the sound of the drainage flow and the faint groan of machinery above. As Rebecca helps him stand, she glances around the vast underground structure—the corroded pipes leaking dark water, the broken catwalks, the flickering lights overhead.

Everywhere she looks, she sees signs of a world that died long ago—and of how Marcus’ twisted genius turned that death into something unending.

Billy steadies himself, wiping at the blood and grime on his cheek. “We need to move,” he says quietly. “Whatever did this… it’s still here.”

Rebecca nods, tightening her grip on her pistol. Together, they begin to walk deeper into the water treatment plant—two survivors against a world built on corpses, surrounded by the echoes of those who weren’t as lucky.

Neither of them looks back.

—

The air is thick with rot and moisture, the underground water treatment plant humming with the low drone of unseen machinery. Every breath Rebecca takes tastes of iron and mold. She’s half-running, half-dragging herself forward along the metal walkway, her ribs screaming in protest beneath her makeshift bandage. Billy stays a step behind, pistol raised, his expression sharp and grim despite the exhaustion shadowing his eyes.

They pass the stagnant pool—a pit of dark, viscous water so still it seems almost solid. A foul stench rises from it, the smell of decay that never quite left this place. Rebecca pauses, glancing down with faint disgust.

That’s when the surface breaks.

A massive claw erupts upward, slick and gleaming with black sludge, and clamps onto the concrete ledge. The ripples explode outward, and both Rebecca and Billy instinctively jump back as a shape—horribly familiar—hauls itself out of the muck.

The Tyrant.

Its skin hangs in tatters, as if the very act of surviving has stripped it raw. One of its shoulders is split wide open, muscle glistening like raw meat beneath the dangling remnants of a shredded containment suit. The single, massive claw flexes with a wet snap. The other arm twitches unnaturally, the sinews stiff but determined. Its eyes—if they can still be called eyes—glow faintly red beneath a mask of blood and rot.

Rebecca’s heart plummets.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she breathes, disbelieving. Then louder, voice cracking with exhaustion and fury, “You again?!”

Her voice echoes across the chamber, swallowed by the metallic groan of pipes and the roar of churning water somewhere deep below. Billy instinctively shifts closer to her, gun aimed square at the creature’s head.

The Tyrant turns toward them, each movement deliberate, slow, as if it knows—knows—that no matter how fast they run, it will catch them eventually. Muck drips from its form in heavy globs, slapping the walkway in rhythmic splashes. The smell worsens.

Rebecca grits her teeth, pushing herself upright despite the agony flaring across her ribs. She can feel the pulse beneath her bandage—hot, throbbing—but she doesn’t care. “I swear,” she mutters under her breath, half to Billy, half to herself, “if that thing doesn’t die this time, I’m shoving a grenade down its throat personally.”

Billy’s mouth twitches, a flash of grim humor in his eyes. “Guess we’ll have to make that happen then,” he says, cocking his pistol.

The Tyrant roars—a guttural, bone-deep sound that rattles the walkway beneath their feet. The air pressure shifts. Dust rains from the ceiling.

Rebecca steadies her shotgun, sweat streaking her temple. Despite the ache, despite the terror, something else burns beneath her fatigue: pure indignation. She’s done running.

“Alright, you overgrown science project,” she growls, voice sharp and defiant. “Let’s finish this!”

The Tyrant surges forward, every step shaking the grated walkway like an earthquake. Its claw swings wide, screeching against the metal railing as sparks burst into the dark.

Rebecca dives aside, the air from the blow almost knocking her off her feet. Her ribs flare white-hot with pain. She grits her teeth and rolls, shotgun pressed tight to her chest.

“Rebecca!” Billy shouts, firing three precise rounds into the creature’s shoulder. Each shot hits home—thud, thud, thud—but the Tyrant only jerks back slightly, flesh rippling where the bullets tear through.

The monster turns its focus toward Billy, rage reverberating through its chest like a drumbeat. It roars again and charges, arm raised.

“Billy, move!”

Rebecca fires. The blast from the shotgun echoes like thunder, and the round hits the Tyrant square in the side of its head. Chunks of rotted tissue explode outward, black ichor spraying the air. The recoil jars her whole body, pain screaming up her arm—but the satisfaction of the hit almost makes her smile.

Billy uses the split second of distraction to sprint for the console nearby—a series of exposed pipes and valves dripping condensation. His instincts kick in. “Rebecca!” he yells. “Get it closer to the tanks!”

She doesn’t need to ask why. They’ve been through enough hell to understand each other wordlessly.

Rebecca reloads, pumping another shell into the chamber. “Hey, ugly!” she yells, stepping out onto the open walkway, daring the Tyrant to turn back. “You want me? Come and get me!”

It does.

The Tyrant crashes toward her, the floor shaking under its bulk. Rebecca fires again—another blast to its chest, enough to stagger it but not enough to stop it. Her back hits the railing, and for one breathless instant, she can see the water below—dark, violent, endless.

“Now, Billy!”

Billy twists the valve, and steam bursts from the pipes with a hiss. He slams the lever next to it, and sparks fly as electrical current crackles through the wet floor panels leading to the Tyrant’s feet.

Electricity floods the walkway in a blinding flash.

The Tyrant convulses, bellowing as the current tears through it. Its body lights up in harsh, white arcs—every muscle locking, its claw flailing helplessly as the metal beneath it warps and glows. The stench of burning flesh fills the air.

Rebecca ducks behind the railing, shielding her face as the sparks erupt. Billy’s shouting something—she can’t hear what—but then the world explodes in sound as one of the overheated tanks ruptures. The shockwave throws her to the ground.

When the light fades, the creature is still—its massive body half-melted into the grated floor, smoking and twitching faintly. One glowing eye flickers weakly, then dies.

For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moves. Only the hiss of ruptured pipes and the distant rush of the river breaks the silence.

Rebecca finally exhales, trembling, lowering her weapon. “Please,” she mutters hoarsely, “stay dead this time.”

Billy limps toward her, coughing from the smoke. “If that thing comes back again,” he says, voice rough, “I’m turning around and leaving the planet.”

Despite everything—the blood, the exhaustion, the shaking in her hands—Rebecca laughs. It’s half a sob, half hysterical relief. “You and me both.”

Billy offers his hand, and she takes it, pulling herself upright. 

Then Rebecca looks toward the far exit, where the faint hum of machinery beckons like the promise of freedom.

“Let’s go,” she says quietly, tightening her grip on the shotgun. “Before this place decides to throw another miracle of science at us.”

Billy smirks faintly, and together, they walk toward the light—leaving the monster, and the nightmare it represented, to burn itself out behind them.

—

The incinerator chamber is a cathedral of rot and ruin—every inch of it crawling with slick, pulsating leeches. They squirm across the walls like living veins, glistening under the harsh red lights. The air is thick with the stench of decay and damp flesh. The distant hum of burning machinery blends with the soft, nauseating squelch of the creatures slithering over metal.

Rebecca’s stomach twists as the sound reaches her—a sickening, wet slither that fills the chamber like the heartbeat of something ancient and wrong. The swarm of leeches moves as one organism, a living tide of hunger and decay. She raises her weapon, steady despite the trembling in her hands, eyes darting to follow the movement.

Then, impossibly, the swarm parts.

A narrow path clears through the writhing mass, revealing a staircase shrouded in shadow. From above, the faint click of polished shoes on metal steps echoes through the air. The leeches still.

A man emerges from the darkness.

He’s tall, impossibly composed, his form wrapped in a black cloak that seems to drink the dim light around him. His hair gleams silver in the flicker of the overhead lamps. His smile is too serene for the horrors surrounding him. When he speaks, his voice slithers like oil across water—smooth, beautiful, and venomous.

“Welcome, young ones,” he says, spreading his arms in mock benediction. “I am so very pleased that you could join the celebration. After all…” His lips curl into a smirk that cuts through Rebecca like a blade. “You are the guests of honor. This is your wake.”

Rebecca’s grip tightens on her pistol. Billy immediately steps forward, muscles coiled, gun raised. “Who the hell are you?” he growls, his voice echoing through the rusted steel chamber.

The man laughs. It’s not a laugh of amusement—it’s one of deep, bitter satisfaction. The sound rolls through the room like thunder, filled with something ancient and triumphant. His face begins to flicker, his flesh rippling and shifting as though it can’t decide on a single shape. The skin bubbles, folding and reforming until—

Rebecca gasps. “No… it can’t be…”

Billy stares, stunned.

Before them stands Dr. James Marcus, at the age he would’ve been should he be still alive.

There’s something inhuman in his stillness, a wrongness in the way his eyes gleam with intelligence and hunger all at once. His skin glows faintly beneath the flickering lights, leeches pulsing beneath the surface as if his veins themselves are alive.

Billy’s voice is low, tense. “Marcus?”

The old man tilts his head slightly, smiling as if savoring the sound of his name. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me.” His tone drips with mock gratitude. “Then you must also know the betrayal that ended my mortal life.”

He begins to walk down the staircase, each step measured and deliberate. His cloak drags behind him like spilled ink.

“Ten years ago,” he says softly, venom in every syllable, “Spencer—my partner, my parasite—had me assassinated.”

Rebecca’s breath hitches as his gaze goes distant. The air hums faintly, and the light above them dims, as if the past itself bleeds into the present. His voice lowers to a whisper.

“I remember everything.”

Marcus stands at his desk, eyes magnified behind lenses, watching a leech twist lazily beneath glass. Then—gunfire. A dozen rounds tear through the silence. The leech shatters. The doctor staggers.

Marcus stumbles backward, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. Two soldiers flank the doorway. Behind them stand two figures—cold, familiar.

Albert Wesker. William Birkin.

Wesker’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and dispassionate. “Time to die, doctor.”

William grins, the arrogance of genius gleaming in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of your research.” His smirk widens as Marcus collapses. “You’ve done your part.”

The soldiers drag Marcus’s lifeless body, tossing him like garbage into a pool of stagnant water. His face disappears beneath the surface.

“Wesker…” His dying whisper bubbles up through blood and murk. “Birkin…”

The scene fades.

But the darkness does not hold.

Something writhes in the red-tinged water—a single leech, moving with purpose. It crawls over his coat, slips beneath his skin. The corpse twitches. The veins darken.

And then—his eyes opened.

Marcus’ voice grows fervent as the vision dissipates, his hands spreading as though in prayer. “But death,” he says, voice trembling with devotion, “was not my end. No, it was my transcendence.”

The swarm below him begins to writhe again, undulating in rhythm with his words. “The Queen Leech—my creation, my child—saw fit to bless me with rebirth. It consumed me, merged with me… and through it, I live again.”

He raises his head, and Rebecca sees it—the faint flicker of movement beneath his skin, the veins pulsing like rivers of life. His voice grows louder, feverish.

“I am reborn—divine, perfected through the will of my own creation. The Queen is me, and I am the Queen. Together, we shall deliver humanity into its final evolution.”

He gestures grandly, the smile on his face radiant and mad all at once. “The world that cast me aside will know my name again. James Marcus—resurrected by the very hand of God!”

Rebecca can barely breathe. Her pulse hammers. Her thoughts flash to Edward, to Bravo Team, to every horror Umbrella unleashed in pursuit of power.

Billy’s jaw locks. “You think you’re some kind of god?”

Marcus’s laughter fills the entire chamber—a sound that shakes the very air, deep and guttural and full of euphoria. “No,” he hisses, eyes gleaming. “I am what God could never create. I am the beginning and the end.”

Rebecca steadies her weapon, voice sharp with fury. “You’re a monster.”

Marcus tilts his head, amused. “Perhaps.” His smile widens. “But then again, my dear, isn’t that what humanity has always worshipped?”

A wet, choking sound erupts from his throat. His mouth stretches unnaturally wide—and the laughter turns into a guttural gag. Rebecca stumbles back, horror etched across her face, as he vomits a torrent of slime onto the floor.

Dozens—hundreds—of leeches spill out, writhing in a living tide.

“Billy!” Rebecca cries, bringing up her weapon.

The man’s body convulses, skin splitting, flesh bubbling and reknitting as if his human shell is being devoured from within. The scream that follows is inhuman—piercing, primal.

In seconds, what was once Marcus is gone.

The leeches merge together, fusing into a towering abomination that hits the ground with the weight of a nightmare. Its body ripples, glistening, its humanoid outline barely visible beneath the undulating mass.

It roars—deep, thunderous, shaking the entire facility.

The air in the incinerator room thickens—hot, stinking, and wet. The world seems to tremble beneath Rebecca’s boots as the newly reborn Queen unfurls her hideous form before them. What was once Dr. James Marcus is gone—replaced by a writhing, glistening horror. Hundreds of leeches fuse and separate in grotesque rhythm, their bodies forming a roughly humanoid shape that pulses like a massive, beating heart.

The creature lets out a scream that rattles her skull—a deafening, wet shriek that sounds both furious and alive.

Rebecca stumbles backward, instinct taking over. “Billy—!”

“I see it!” he barks, raising his pistol and unloading a burst into the Queen’s mass. The bullets disappear into the slick, black body with sickening plops, doing little more than making the surface ripple.

The monster surges forward. A sweeping limb—no, a tendril—lashes out like a whip. Billy barely dives aside in time, the appendage smashing into the metal floor where he stood a heartbeat before. The impact bends the steel with a screech.

Rebecca fires the shotgun—boom!—and the recoil slams into her shoulder. The blast tears through a chunk of the Queen’s torso, splattering leeches across the floor like spilled ink. For a second, it actually staggers.

“Go for the core!” she shouts, reloading with trembling hands. “There’s a bright spot—by its chest!”

Billy squints through the haze, spotting the faint glow beneath the swarm’s surface—a pulsing red organ, like a diseased heart. “Got it!” He pivots, fires, and hits the target dead-on. The creature jerks violently, shrieking as black ichor sprays the walls.

Rebecca doesn’t have time to celebrate. The Queen retaliates.

A torrent of leeches spills from its body, skittering across the floor toward them like living oil. The ground becomes a writhing carpet of teeth and slime. Rebecca yells as one crawls up her boot; she stomps it, crushing it under her heel.

“Move!” Billy shouts, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the far walkway. Behind them, the creature slams a tendril into the ceiling, sending rusted panels crashing down like shrapnel. Sparks rain through the darkness, igniting small fires.

The pair sprint through the chaos, boots slipping on the slick metal. Rebecca’s lungs burn, every breath tasting of blood and rot. The Queen roars again—furious, relentless—and smashes through a wall of pipes, boiling steam exploding across the room.

Billy throws his arm over Rebecca, shielding her as the steam washes over them. The heat sears her skin. The creature’s shadow looms large against the haze, impossibly massive, its clawed appendages twitching as though savoring the chase.

Rebecca reloads again, hands shaking. “We can’t kill it here!” she gasps. “We need to run!”

Billy nods, eyes darting toward a platform on the far side of the chamber—the faint gleam of an elevator terminal. “There! Come on!”

They tear across the catwalk, dodging falling debris and swinging tendrils. The Queen slams into the wall beside them, and the metal walkway tilts dangerously. Rebecca loses her footing and nearly slips into the abyss—but Billy grabs her wrist and yanks her back.

“Keep moving!” he snarls.

Rebecca stumbles forward, heart pounding so loud she can barely hear. She fires behind them as they run, each shot lighting the darkness like lightning. The Queen’s flesh bursts and reforms instantly, healing as fast as they can wound it.

It’s unkillable.

When they reach the elevator controls, Rebecca fumbles with the keycard. Her hands are slick with sweat and blood. “Come on, come on!” she mutters desperately.

The panel flickers—then the massive cargo elevator begins to rumble beneath them.

Behind them, the Queen lets out another unholy scream, charging across the room. Its many limbs pound the ground like drums, shaking the catwalk apart.

“Rebecca, now!” Billy yells.

The elevator platform begins to ascend—but not fast enough. The creature lunges, slamming into the railing just as the duo jumps aboard. The entire structure groans under the impact, tilting dangerously.

Rebecca fires one last round into the Queen’s face—close enough that she feels the spray of burning fluid hit her cheek. “Stay down!” she screams.

The blast tears open part of its skull, sending leeches flying like shrapnel. The creature recoils, howling, and for a split second—it falls back.

The platform shudders, gears grinding as it drops into the depths below.

Rebecca collapses against the railing, chest heaving. Billy slumps beside her, blood smeared across his temple, his gun smoking.

“Please,” she whispers to the ceiling, voice raw. “Just let that be the end of it.”

The elevator hums softly, rising through the shattered remains of the treatment facility. Rebecca and Billy lean against the railing, bruised, bloodstained, and trembling with exhaustion. Steam still curls from ruptured pipes below, and the faint heat of the detonating systems reaches them in sharp, metallic bursts.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Rebecca exhales. Her voice is small but steady. “...We made it.”

Billy gives a short, tired laugh, though it’s more air than sound. “Don’t jinx it, kid.”

But even as he says it, the illusion of safety shatters.

A crash reverberates from below, a thunderous, bone-deep roar that makes the entire lift shudder. Rebecca’s eyes widen as she grips the railing. “What?”

Billy leans over the edge, looking down—and freezes. “It’s the Queen!”

Down the elevator shaft, the monstrous bulk of the Queen Leech erupts through the wall, forcing its way upward. Its form is barely recognizable now, a pulsating, gelatinous mass of fused leeches and bone. The thing writhes like a single, enormous muscle—every movement a sickening symphony of squelching flesh.

Rebecca staggers back. “That’s impossible—she should be dead!”

But the creature doesn’t die. It hungers.

The shriek that follows is a banshee’s wail of fury, vibrating the very air.

A calm, artificial tone cuts through the chaos.

“The self-destruct has been activated. All personnel evacuate immediately.”

Rebecca’s head snaps toward the control panel. “Who activated the self-destruct system?!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Billy growls, grabbing the console controls. His hands are slick with blood and grime, but he twists the levers with everything he has. “Come on! Can’t this thing move any faster?”

The lift jerks upward with a mechanical whine—but it’s too slow.

The Queen slams into it with a sound like thunder. The platform pitches violently, and both of them are thrown to the ground.

“Shit!” Billy curses, rolling to his feet as the elevator crumples beneath the monster’s strength. The cables scream, snapping under the strain. The entire lift tears apart, metal shrieking as it collapses into the abyss below.

The Queen lands before them—a hulking mass of darkness and death. But this time, there’s light.

Sunlight.

A pale morning glow filters through a gaping hole in the ceiling. For the first time, dawn touches the creature’s flesh—and the reaction is immediate. Smoke rises from its body, followed by the sharp hiss of burning tissue. The monster shrieks in agony, convulsing violently.

Rebecca’s eyes go wide. “Billy! It can’t handle sunlight!”

“Then we make it handle it,” he snaps. “Follow me!”

They sprint across the wreckage-strewn chamber toward the control terminal that operates the cargo bay’s retractable roof. The Queen lunges, its clawed appendages slamming into the ground inches behind them. Metal buckles under its weight.

“You work on the windows!” Billy shouts over the chaos, loading another clip into his handgun. “I’ll use my charm to distract her majesty.”

Rebecca nearly laughs at the absurdity of it—even now, in hell itself, Billy finds a way to joke. “Got it!” she yells back, throwing herself at the control console. Her hands fly across the switches, flipping the manual override.

The mechanism resists at first. Then the gears catch.

The roof begins to groan open, inch by inch.

The Queen howls in defiance and charges. Billy plants his feet, takes aim, and unloads everything he has. Each shot tears chunks out of the creature’s body—but it doesn’t stop. It towers over him, its bulk quivering with hate, its stench filling the air.

Rebecca slams the final lever down. The roof tears open completely—and the morning sun pours in.

The entire room floods with blinding light.

The Queen convulses, screeching so loudly the sound feels like it’s peeling the walls. Its slimy flesh bubbles and bursts, black steam rising from its surface. The smell is unbearable. But even as it burns, it lashes out wildly, smashing its massive limbs against the floor. One blow sends Rebecca flying backward, slamming into a support beam.

Her vision spins. Pain flares up her spine—but through the haze, she spots a gleam on the ground.

A gun.

“Billy!” she croaks, grabbing it with shaking fingers and throwing it toward him.

He catches it in one smooth motion. A magnum.

“Hey, Queenie!” Billy calls out, his voice sharp, defiant, echoing over the screeching chaos. “Feast on this!”

He pulls the trigger.

The shot is deafening. The magnum bullet tears through the Queen’s pulsating body, punching a smoking hole clean through it. For one suspended instant, time freezes. The monster reels back—its form unraveling. Then, with a scream that sounds almost human, it topples backward into the shattered elevator shaft.

Rebecca stumbles to the edge, watching in horror and awe as the Queen plummets. Halfway down, a wave of light and fire surges upward—the self-destruct detonations consuming everything below.

The creature ignites mid-fall, its massive body disintegrating in the explosion, until there’s nothing left but flame.

“Billy!” Rebecca cries, reaching for him as debris rains from the ceiling.

“Rebecca, hurry!” he yells, pulling her to her feet. Together, they sprint toward the emergency hatch. The world around them shakes apart—walls collapsing, flames racing through the facility like a living thing.

They burst through the final exit just as the inferno erupts behind them. The explosion lights up the early morning sky, a violent sunrise of fire and ruin.

For a long, breathless moment, they stand on the edge of the plateau, staring back at the burning remains of the Umbrella facilities. The earth trembles underfoot, and the heat of the blast warms their faces.

Rebecca finally lets herself breathe. Her shoulders sag, the weight of everything catching up all at once. “It’s over,” she whispers.

Billy glances at her, exhausted but smiling faintly. “Yeah. For now.”

The wind carries the scent of smoke—and the faint cry of distant birds.

For the first time since this nightmare began, dawn truly feels like dawn.

—

The dawn feels unreal—too bright, too gentle for what they’ve just survived.

Rebecca staggers into the morning light, lungs burning as if the clean air itself is foreign to her. Behind her, the metal door to the treatment plant groans shut with a hollow finality, sealing away the nightmare they barely escaped. For the first time all night, there’s no gunfire, no screaming, no echoing growls of monsters that should never have existed.

Only silence. Only the wind whispering through the trees.

Billy emerges a step behind her, his shoulders heaving, his face smeared with blood and soot. For a while, neither of them speaks. They just… breathe. The earth beneath their boots feels steady again. The sunrise spills across the cliff like liquid gold, and the forest stretches endlessly below, still wrapped in morning mist.

Billy takes a slow step forward until he’s standing at the cliff’s edge. His hand drifts to the metal cuffs still clinging loosely to his wrist. For a long moment, he stares at them—his last tie to a life that branded him a killer. Then, without a word, he pulls them off and lets them fall.

The cuffs glint once, catching the sunlight before vanishing into the forest far below.

Rebecca watches them disappear, her heart tightening. The sound of metal striking rock echoes faintly, then fades—like a ghost losing its last tether to the living world.

Billy exhales and sinks to the ground, lying flat on his back. “So,” he murmurs, staring at the sky, “that’s it, huh? We actually made it.”

Rebecca stands beside him, still trembling with exhaustion. Her mind swims with images she’ll never forget—the leeches, the screams, the burning light swallowing the Queen. Survival feels like a cruel miracle.

She turns her eyes toward the horizon, scanning the vast green sea of trees. Then she sees it.

A mansion. Ancient, solemn, and ominously still, sitting like a dark jewel at the forest’s heart.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice catching. “That must be the old mansion my captain was talking about.”

Billy props himself up on one elbow and follows her gaze. A bitter smile tugs at his lips. “Looks like your night’s not over yet.”

“Yeah,” Rebecca says quietly. Her eyes linger on the mansion. “Guess not.”

The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of ash and decay from the ruins behind them. She crouches beside him, hands shaking faintly as she reaches for the chain around his neck. The metal is warm, imprinted by his skin. His dog tag—Lt. Billy Coen.

Rebecca threads it over her head, the tag settling cold against her chest. The simple act feels heavier than it should.

“I guess it’s time to say goodbye,” she says softly. Her smile is fragile, the kind that tries not to break. “Officially… Lieutenant Billy Coen is dead.”

Billy gives a small huff of laughter, though there’s no joy in it. “Yeah.” His gaze drifts upward, toward the sky turning pink with sunrise. “Guess I’m just a zombie now.”

The joke lands between them like a sigh—half humor, half sorrow.

Rebecca straightens and salutes him. Her hand trembles slightly, but her eyes don’t waver.

Billy gets to his feet and returns the salute. There’s no soldierly precision in it—just quiet understanding. Two people who should have died a hundred times over, standing in the fragile stillness of morning.

She lowers her hand first. “Take care of yourself,” she murmurs.

He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “You too, rookie.”

The nickname, said one last time, makes her chest ache.

When she turns toward the forest, her footsteps sound impossibly loud in the silence. She doesn’t look back right away—because she knows if she does, she might not be able to keep walking.

Behind her, Billy watches until she disappears among the trees. Then he calls softly, “Thank you, Rebecca.”

She stops, glances back, and catches the small, lopsided grin he gives her—a soldier’s farewell wrapped in a survivor’s gratitude. He raises his thumb in the air. She answers with a faint nod.

Then they part ways.

Billy vanishes into the forest, swallowed by sunlight and shadow. Rebecca stands alone for a long moment, staring after him, one hand resting over the dog tag at her collarbone.

The morning feels too beautiful for what it cost them.

When she finally turns toward the mansion, the forest seems to hold its breath. The first rays of true light crest over the trees, painting her in gold as she walks toward the unknown.

Behind her, a butterfly struggles in a spider’s web—its fragile wings catching the light with every desperate beat.

It doesn’t notice the sunrise.

It only knows how to keep fighting.

Rebecca pauses for a heartbeat, watching it glimmer against the dawn. Then she exhales, shoulders squared, and steps forward—toward the mansion, toward the next nightmare.

—

A few minutes prior…

The rain falls in thin, cold sheets, hissing as it strikes the cracked marble of the courtyard. Smoke billows from the distant hills where the Training Facility burns—a wounded monster thrashing in its final death throes. The stench of rot and chemical fire mingles with the sharp tang of ozone.

Albert Wesker stands beneath the ruined arch of the church’s entrance, the dying light of evening painting the edges of his silhouette in gold. His glasses catch the glint of firelight. Behind them, his expression is unreadable—controlled, as always—but his gloves are slick with blood.

He surveys the carnage with detached precision. The once grand Training Facility lies gutted, windows shattered, its interior collapsing in on itself. What remains is little more than a mausoleum for Umbrella’s arrogance.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice low, nearly swallowed by the rain. “You deserved this end.”

He moves with purpose through the flooded courtyard, boots splashing through puddles clouded with ash. The great double doors of the church groan under his touch as he pushes them open, revealing the half-collapsed nave beyond. The smell inside is worse—mold, decay, and old death. Candles still burn faintly on the altar, their light flickering in defiance of the storm.

Somewhere deep below, the hum of machinery persists.

He follows it.

Down the long stairwell, through the winding halls where the air grows colder and the electric buzz of Umbrella’s heart still beats faintly. Every step echoes. He passes the corpses of soldiers and researchers alike—empty husks left in the wake of his own plans, their blood slick against the tiles.

Wesker pauses only once—at a shattered monitor displaying the Umbrella insignia. His lips twitch into something between mockery and disdain. “You built empires on the backs of fools,” he mutters, “and you expected loyalty in return.”

When he reaches the underground platform—the site of the Ecliptic Express crash—his reflection flashes in a pool of standing water. A single drop falls, distorting it.

And then—“Albert.”

The deep, accented voice cuts through the air like a blade.

From the shadows, Sergei Vladimir, Spencer’s loyal dog, steps forward, every inch of him carved in iron and control. His massive frame dwarfs even the ruined chamber. His greatcoat drips with rainwater, the Umbrella insignia gleaming proudly on his sleeve. Beside him stands one of his Ivans—a towering, pale-skinned bioweapon that watches Wesker with the stillness of a predator awaiting command.

“Running away so soon?” Sergei’s tone is almost amused, though his eyes are cold. “You disappoint me. To think one of Spencer’s precious protégés would abandon his post so easily.”

Wesker turns to face him fully, the faintest smirk curling his lips. “Call it strategic withdrawal,” he replies. “The facility’s lost. Best to let the virus consume itself rather than allow another outbreak.”

“Ah.” Sergei takes a step closer, boots ringing sharply against the floor. “You speak of containment while fleeing your failure. The virus is nothing to you now, da? You’ve lost your nerve, Albert.”

The insult glances off Wesker like rain on glass. “I’m no longer interested in mopping up Umbrella’s messes.”

Sergei’s smile fades. “Then it seems you’ve forgotten who holds command here.” His voice drops to a growl. “You are not in charge.”

Before Wesker can respond, Sergei raises his hand. “Ivan.”

The creature lurches forward, a blur of speed that belies its bulk. The air itself seems to buckle under the weight of its charge. Wesker sidesteps the first blow, the wind of it whipping his coat around him, and draws his sidearm in one smooth motion. His bullets slam into the Ivan’s chest, but the bioweapon barely flinches.

“Impressive,” Wesker murmurs, lowering his weapon as the Ivan’s shadow looms over him. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

The fight erupts with brutal immediacy. The Ivan’s fists crash down like thunder, shattering the concrete floor. Wesker weaves between the strikes, his movements unnaturally precise—inhumanly fast. He ducks beneath a swing and drives his elbow into the creature’s ribs, the impact cracking bone. The Ivan snarls, seizing him by the throat and slamming him into a wall with bone-jarring force.

For a heartbeat, Wesker’s vision flickers red. The world slows.

Then his eyes gleam gold.

With a feral snarl, he wrenches free, twisting the Ivan’s arm until it snaps with a wet crack. His hand blurs forward, fingers spearing into the creature’s chest—once, twice—until the Tyrant staggers back, clutching at the gaping wound where its heart should be.

“Lesson learned,” Wesker breathes.

He rips the heart free and drops it to the floor. The Ivan collapses, smoke rising from its ruined chest.

Sergei watches, expression unreadable. Then, faintly—he smiles. “Excellent. You’ve embraced it at last.”

Before either man can move, a deep, rumbling roar tears through the facility. The walls shudder violently as fire blossoms from above—the collapsing ceiling of the upper levels finally giving way. A wave of heat rushes across the room, scorching the air.

Sergei turns his head toward the glow, face briefly illuminated in the inferno’s light. “Our time here is over,” he says simply.

“Agreed,” Wesker replies. His tone is calm, but his pulse thrums with a dark exhilaration. “You go your way, Sergei. I’ll take care of mine.”

As the flames devour the Training Facility, both men retreat—one toward the burning stairwell, the other vanishing into the smoke.

Wesker moves with the grace of someone utterly untouched by the chaos behind him. The shadows swallow him whole as he emerges into the night once more, the fire’s glow reflecting off his glasses.

His lips curve into a faint, knowing smile.

“The Spencer Mansion,” he murmurs, the name tasting like inevitability. “Let’s see how S.T.A.R.S. performs under pressure.”

And as the Training Facility collapses in a burst of flame behind him, Albert Wesker walks into the storm—alone, but already planning the next move in his quiet war against the world.

—

The apartment is quiet in the way quiet becomes when everyone else is busy being grown-ups — the kind of quiet that lets Tim hear his own breath. He sits cross-legged on Chris' couch, the laptop on his knees like a sleeping animal he has no right to wake. The screen glows a pale, conspiratorial light across his face, and the apartment smells faintly of coffee and the antiseptic tang of gun oil. 

Chris left hours ago, armed to the teeth and tight-lipped about the mission, leaving Tim alone with the metal box that might, if his instincts are right, blow the whole roof off whatever William Birkin thinks is safe. The silence he leaves behind settles over Tim like a weight, broken only by the hum of the stolen laptop booting up on his knees.

He rubs his thumb over the trackpad, then taps the power button. The laptop wakes with a soft whine. William Birkin’s corporate logo blinks for a heartbeat on the screen — a sterile, smug crest — and then asks for a password.

“Of course you’d lock it down, Birkin. Wouldn’t be fun otherwise,” Tim mutters, and already he’s smiling, because he loves puzzles the way some people love cartoons. He has Dick’s patience and Batman’s hunger for problems that look like problems and smell like secrets. Alfred’s voice echoes faintly in his memory — a reprimand, wrapped in sugar: Be discreet, Master Timothy. He ducks the memory with a grin; discretion is a costume he wears when necessary. Tonight, it doesn’t fit.

He doesn’t brute-force it like in the movies. He doesn’t roll out obvious tricks. He crawls. Small, silent steps forward: metadata, cached usernames, a fingerprint Tim knows sits under the chair of every complacent computer—the little conveniences executives leave for themselves: an auto-login cached in a buried config, a soft link to a cloud URL with lax permissions, a trace of an old thumbprint ID that can be coaxed awake if you know how to ask nicely.

How he knows how to ask is a long stitch of afternoons under the bat-computer, hours with Dick’s training sessions where he learned how a body gives itself away and Bruce’s patience drilling him through puzzles until his fingers memorized logic. How he knows is also an accumulation of things — library nights rifling through encryption theory for fun, scuffed Hack-the-Pentagon boasts he always made to everyone, the tiny flashlight in his pocket Dick gave him for the Under-the-Couch Expedition of Last Month. He was eight and he’s been a burglar and a lockpicker and a code whisperer in miniature.

The first wall falls quietly. A small window slides open inside an old password manager—a trail of innocuous XML that reveals last-login tokens. Tim breathes in, the damp apartment air feeling suddenly too thin, and he slips a token into a local script he’s written in a spray of midnight work between algebra and bedtime. The script does nothing dramatic; it nudges a service to accept a handshake it was meant to deny. The laptop thinks for a frozen beat, then coughs and goes, startlingly, yes.

“Nice try, W. Birkin,” Tim says out loud, because speaking makes the victory taste real. He leans forward, fingers flying in a way that’s half-practice, half-ritual. He opens directories that people like Birkin believe no one will ever care about: corporate R&D, personnel, finance. He moves slowly, carefully, the way you move when you’re inside someone else’s dream.

Folders bloom across the desktop. He sees a structure that is too tidy to be benign: ARKLAY—PROJECTS—BIOWEAPONS—then, like a nail driven into a coffin lid, a directory named T-SERIES. His stomach does a funny, tiny flip. He has a mental map of Umbrella from the scraps Sherry fed him and the whispers he scavenged online with an adolescent nose for scandal. Birkin’s name sits in a dozen places, official and untouchable. The T-SERIES folder feels like the place those whispers go to die and throb and become true.

He opens a file. It’s scrambled, binary and clinical, but the header is human enough to make his throat tighten: SUBJECT LOG—T-001. He pulls at it gently, as if coaxing a sleeping animal. The file resists; it’s contained, encrypted to a degree that makes his eyebrows narrow. Not a wall—not yet—but a thoughtful, armored door.

“Security is a bitch,” he says to the empty room, and the sentence is half astonishment, half admiration. The laptop whirs back at him with the indifferent hum of something that can outthink him if it bothers to. Whatever William hides here, it’s big. Big enough to make someone like him take precautions that smell like guilt.

Tim doesn’t panic. He knows the pattern of men like Birkin: they hide the worst things under layers, and they take the best toys to bed. That T-SERIES tag is a beacon. He files its existence visually into his mental corkboard—a fresh tack next to the Arklay dates he and Sherry have been threading into a story that keeps getting darker. He makes a note to copy the file—but not yet. He’s not reckless. Chris' spare room is only loaned, and this laptop is still a stolen thing until the minute he walks out the door with it.

He pokes around other corners. A personnel roster lists technicians whose IDs match receipts in the files Sherry showed him. One folder has a series of invoices; another hides a string of procurement orders that read like a grocery list for nightmares: reagents and containment components, veiled by plausible rationales. He snaps pictures with his phone. They promised to be careful, and promises are a currency he spends when other currencies fail.

A thumbnail flashes on the screen: VIDEO_LOG_ARKLAY_JUN16.MP4. He swallows. He clicks.

Frames open into a grainy corridor, then something that looks like a surgical theater: masks, dead light, and then a slow, skillful clip of a human figure moving under harsh lights. The footage is clinical as a butcher’s receipt, and not everything in the clip is intended for public eyes. Tim’s stomach does a small, icy turn. He pauses it, fingers hovering. He wants to throw the whole laptop out the window and run to Sherry and tell her everything and—he breathes. Detective work is patience as much as it is proof.

He copies a small text file into a hidden folder on a thumb drive—a title, a checksum, nothing anyone could make sense of at first glance. He’s not careless. He is a boy playing grown-up roles in a man’s very dangerous play. He’s been training for this, in little ways, for years. He thinks of Bruce watching him in that one case where he let Tim run the comms; he thinks of Dick’s absurd, theatrical protectiveness; he thinks of Sherry’s small, bleeding bravery.

The encrypted container resists again. Its algorithm is a latticework wrapped around another latticework. Tim drums his fingers and mutters out loud, half a litany. “Not tonight. Not all of it, anyway.” He opens a terminal window, but only to peek at timestamps and hash values — not to dig for code in any useful, instructive way. He refuses to step over lines that might teach others to pry.

Instead he scrolls, cataloging. Names. Dates. Projects with initials that echo the things he and Sherry fear. The file structures are all breadcrumbs but the breadcrumb trail is thick enough to follow. He builds a plan in his head: get this to Sherry, align the Arklay data with what they overheard, then—if the pieces line up—maybe bring it to Bruce and Dick. Maybe not the whole of it; that’s their decision. His role is the small, stubborn one: gather, preserve, point.

For a moment, tiredness curls around him like a hand. He’s only twelve and it’s late, and there are parents called Drake and Wayne somewhere in the world who would throw the sky at him if they knew he’d sneaked out a corporate laptop. He imagines Bruce’s face—not the cowl, just the man—and the weight in that look when he knows Tim is walking into danger on purpose. The thought steadies him more than it frightens him.

He makes one more pass through the directories, then shuts down the outward interface and encrypts a tiny package of what he’s seen: a string of filenames, JPGs he took, a short transcript he types in his neat little block letters. He doesn’t remove anything bigger. He doesn’t try to open the core container.

He pins the file into an innocuous place on his own drive—a family photo folder named vacation that will look petty to any cursory search. Then he ejects the thumb drive with the slow tenderness of someone handling a relic.

“Whatever you’re hiding, Mr. Birkin,” he says into the empty apartment, “you’re not hiding it well enough.”

His chest is full of something that tastes like triumph and fear and hunger all at once. He boots the laptop down with a small flourish, like closing a book at the end of a promising, dangerous chapter. The screen dies to black. The apartment slips back into its domestic hush.

He tucks the thumb drive into the secret pocket of his backpack, where Dick’s flashlight lives, and slides the laptop back to the bottom of the bag. He feels ridiculous and enormous at once — a boy with a stolen treasure chest and a map drawn in half-guesses and courage.

He pulls out his phone. One short text to Sherry, careful and coded in their private shorthand: Found a door. It’s locked. It’s bigger. Sleep?

Her answer is instant, three dots blooming into a single reply that makes him grin in the dim: Sleep. Tomorrow. Be careful. —S

Tim tucks the phone away and sits very still for a while. The world outside Chris' window is a smudge of streetlight and distant sound. In the quiet he lets himself be a child for the smallest sliver of time: thinking of ice cream, of Bruce making a terrible face when Jason pulls a prank, of Dick’s ridiculous promises to punch the Drakes if they so much as think of leaving Tim behind again.

Then he stands, gathers up the laptop like contraband, and murmurs to himself — half promise, half oath: “We’ll get him, Sherry. We’ll get them.”

—

Rebecca wakes to the sharp scent of damp wood and the faint creak of the mansion settling in the dark. Her body aches, every muscle screaming from exhaustion, but the sting in her ribs from the hastily bandaged wound is what finally pushes her to sit up. Her surroundings are unfamiliar—ornate wallpaper, cracked and faded; velvet curtains that hang heavy with mildew; the faint echo of dripping water somewhere in the distance. She must have passed out here after forcing the door open.

For a fleeting moment, there’s peace. Then—footsteps.

She tenses, hand flying to her sidearm, when a familiar voice breaks through the stillness. “Rebecca? Oh, thank God—”

“Richard?” Her relief is so sudden it nearly hurts. She lowers her gun and takes a shaky breath as he steps into view—disheveled, dirt smudged on his uniform, but alive. The flashlight in his grip flickers briefly across his face, and in that instant, she sees how tired he looks.

He kneels beside her, the warmth of his palm ghosting over her shoulder. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, half to himself. “I thought you were one of them for a second.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, giving a weak smile. “Guess I’m harder to kill than I look.”

It earns her a faint, relieved laugh. He helps her to her feet, supporting her with a gentleness that surprises her. It’s quiet for a moment—too quiet—and Rebecca’s smile fades. “Where’s the Captain? And the others?”

Richard’s expression darkens, eyes shifting toward the broken doorway. “We were ambushed. Forest didn’t make it… and Enrico—he went ahead. He’s alive, I think. I was hoping you’d found him.”

Rebecca swallows hard, guilt coiling in her gut. She shakes her head. “I searched the west wing. Nothing.”

“Then we keep looking,” Richard says firmly. “We’ll find him.”

They press forward through the mansion’s maze of hallways, their footsteps the only sound beneath the whispering draft that seems to breathe through the walls. Rebecca can’t shake the feeling that the house itself is watching them. Every door feels heavier than the last.

When they reach the eastern corridor, Richard suddenly stops. “Rebecca—look.”

She follows his gaze. Through the cracked window, beyond the moonlit courtyard, a figure in a dark coat emerges from the front doors of the mansion. Even from a distance, the man’s military posture and cold precision are unmistakable. He walks beside a towering bioweapon—a massive humanoid shape, armor glinting under the faint light. It looks to be one of those Tyrants, she shudders. And carried effortlessly in its arms is a sealed capsule, its faint red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

Rebecca’s breath catches. “What the hell…?”

“Whoever that is,” Richard mutters, “he’s not supposed to be here.”

But before they can move, the air trembles with a low, guttural sound. A hiss.

It starts faintly, from deep within the ventilation shafts, then grows into a bone-deep rumble that shakes the floorboards beneath their feet.

Rebecca’s flashlight flickers once.

“Richard…” she whispers. “Do you hear that?”

The ceiling bursts open.

A massive serpent crashes through the upper rafters, scales glistening slickly in the dim light, its fanged maw splitting wide with a deafening roar. It’s so big it nearly fills the corridor, its body coiling through the air like liquid muscle.

Rebecca screams, diving back as its tail whips across the floor, splintering the wood. Richard yanks her toward the adjoining hall, shoving open the nearest door. They tumble into the library, breath ragged, as the snake’s body slams against the frame behind them.

Books cascade from the shelves. Dust clouds rise like smoke.

“Move!” Richard shouts, firing his shotgun at the creature as it bursts through the doorway. The shot barely slows it down. Its massive head whips toward Rebecca, its jaws unhinging with a hiss that vibrates the floor.

Her hands tremble, but training takes over. She steadies her pistol, firing again and again, bullets tearing into its glistening scales. It recoils with a piercing shriek, the recoil from the shots shaking through her injured ribs—but she doesn’t stop.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Richard move.

“Richard—no!”

He throws himself between her and the creature as it lunges. Its fangs sink deep into his torso before she can react, and the sound—the wet, brutal sound—shatters the air.

Time stops.

“Richard!”

She fires again, and again, until the serpent jerks back with a furious hiss, retreating into the shadows. Her heart hammers in her chest, her gun shaking in her grip as the echoes fade.

When she finally reaches him, Richard’s blood stains her gloves. His breathing is shallow, eyes glassy with pain.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” she whispers, pressing her hands against the wound. “You’re going to be okay.”

He gives her a weak grin, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You… always were the stubborn one…”

Rebecca’s throat tightens. “Save your strength. There must be some kind of anti-venom around here somewhere with that snake. So, I’ll find the serum. I promise.”

But as she looks at him—the way his face blurs with pain, the faint tremor in his hand—something inside her breaks. Around them, the mansion is silent again. But it isn’t peace. It’s the stillness that comes after tragedy, the kind that weighs heavier than fear.

And Rebecca Chambers, trembling and bloodstained, realizes this is only the beginning.

—

Memo of the Founding of Umbrella

(extracted from the Umbrella Archives)

Introduction

Umbrella was founded in 1968 by three partners - myself, my good friend Edward Ashford, and the preeminent virology expert Dr. James Marcus.

We all shared a common goal from the outset. We believed that virus research would play an important role in improving people's health. One day, it would even help to build a society free from the ills of disease.

The Umbrella logo is a symbol of our unwavering pledge - "Preserving the health of the people."

Technology is the umbrella that will serve that purpose.

Thanks to everyone's support, our company has grown and the Umbrella logo is recognized and trusted throughout the world. For 40 years, we have followed our principles and delivered safety and peace of mind to medical facilities and homes.

I would like to thank our loyal shareholders, employees and customers for their invaluable contributions to our continuing success.

Unfortunately, both Edward and James have passed on in the course of this last year.

While I mourn their loss, I feel their shining example lives on in the work we do everyday. I know they would be proud if they could see Umbrella now.

We at Umbrella will continue to do our best to spur new innovation and make the world a better place for everyone.

Humanity's future is safe under our umbrella.

We appreciate your continued support.

Umbrella Corporation Founder

Oswell E. Spencer

—

Marcus's Diary 

December 4th

We finally did it... the new virus! We call it Progenitor. I will begin detailed investigations into this virus immediately.

March 29rd

Spencer says he's going to start a company. Well, I don't care, as long as I can continue my research into Progenitor. He can do whatever he likes...

August 19th

Spencer keeps hassling me to become the director of his new training facility. Maybe it's due to the business, but he's becoming intolerably pushy. Perhaps I can turn this to my advantage. I need a special facility to properly explore all of the secrets of this virus. A place where no one will get in the way...

November 30th

Damn that Spencer! He came to complain to me again today. He thinks of Progenitor as nothing more than a money-spinning tool. Fool! But if his influence continues to grow... it can only be bad for my research. If I'm to properly develop Progenitor, I must strengthen my own position too.

September 19th

At last... I've discovered a way to build a new virus type with Progenitor as a base. Mixing it with leech DNA was the breakthrough I needed. I call this new virus T, and it marks the first successful derivation of the Progenitor line.

October 23rd

It's no good! I can't hope for progress by experimenting on mere rodents. Only humans can be a proper mammalian subject for these experiments. Otherwise, I'll never make any real progress...

November 15th

Someone seems to suspect something about my experiments, but perhaps, it's just my imagination. Well, if anyone does get too close, they may find themselves unexpectedly "assisting" in my research!

January 13th

At last, they are ready. My wonderful leeches! Those of low intelligence will never have the privilege of tasting this sense of joy and satisfaction! Now, finally, I can move against Spencer. Soon, I will control everything...

January 31st

The devices I set to protect my work have been disturbed. It appears someone came looking for T and the leeches. Fool. No doubt the work of Spencer's group.

February 11th

Today, I again found evidence of tampering around the entrance to the labs. If that's what they're after, I must find a suitable way to deal with them. Perhaps I should have William and Albert smoke out the pests... Those two are the only ones I trust. Apart from my beloved leeches, of course. But Spencer… It wouldn't end there, would it?

Chapter Text

The night sky is a heavy, suffocating black, stitched with restless clouds that glow faintly with the light of the half-moon. The roar of helicopter blades tears through the silence of the Arklay Mountains, chopping the air into anxious pulses.

Inside, Alpha Team sits grim and silent, each man and woman weighed down by the tension hanging between them. Chris leans forward in his seat, hands clasped tight, eyes locked on the forest beneath them. He’s been a soldier long enough to know when something’s off, and tonight the air feels wrong.

“Still no word from Bravo?” he asks, voice raised over the thrum of the rotors.

Wesker, calm behind his sunglasses even in the dark, doesn’t look up from the handheld radio resting on his knee. “Nothing. Radio silence since last night.” His tone is controlled, but Chris hears the annoyance buried under it.

Jill shifts uncomfortably beside him, gloved fingers tightening on the strap of her harness. “That’s not like Enrico. He’d never let comms just go dark.”

Barry grunts, rubbing at his jaw. His towering frame looks even larger stuffed into the seat, his revolver heavy at his hip. “Could be they had equipment failure? Or—” He stops, and his mouth presses into a grim line. He doesn’t say the other possibility.

No one does.

Brad, who was piloting, adjusts their heading. His voice crackles over the intercom. “We’re approaching Bravo’s last coordinates. Everyone hold tight.”

The helicopter dips lower. The dense canopy below shifts, giving way to a small clearing. There, crouched like a broken bird, lies Bravo Team’s helicopter. Its rotor blades hang limp, one twisted and cracked from an obvious hard landing.

Chris leans closer to the window. “There they are.” His chest tightens. But the clearing looks deserted. No movement. No light. No welcoming team rushing out to signal. Just the wreckage.

They set down on the edge of the clearing, blades slowing into a low growl before cutting off entirely. The silence that follows feels too loud, pressing against their ears.

The Alpha Team disembarks, boots crunching on the dirt. The smell hits first—an acrid, metallic tang that doesn’t belong in the cool mountain air.

Chris is the first to notice the figure slumped against the helicopter’s landing gear. He quickens his pace, Jill close at his side. “Oh no…”

The beam of Jill’s flashlight swings down, illuminating the lifeless face of Kevin Dooley, Bravo Team’s pilot. His uniform is shredded, blood caked thick around his chest and throat. His eyes stare blankly at the night sky.

Barry exhales sharply. “God almighty…” He crouches beside the body, checking for a pulse out of instinct, though the truth is obvious. He lowers his head. “Kid never had a chance.”

Chris clenches his fists, jaw tightening. “Where’s the rest of them?” His voice has an edge, urgent, already calculating possibilities.

“Spread out,” Wesker orders, his tone clipped, commanding. “Check the perimeter. Don’t go too far.”

They fan out through the clearing, beams of light cutting into the shadows. The forest feels alive around them—whispering branches, rustling leaves, every sound amplified by the tension strangling their nerves.

Joseph strays just beyond the treeline, his eyes darting back and forth. He kneels, sweeping his flashlight low. His beam glints off something metallic half-buried in the dirt. He picks it up—an empty shell casing, recently fired.

“Hey!” he calls back, holding it up. “Found something. Looks like they were shooting—”

The rest never comes.

From the shadows, they burst—snarling, hulking shapes with glowing eyes and slavering jaws. Dogs—but not dogs. Their flesh hangs in strips, fur patchy and mangled, muscle exposed. Their growls are inhuman, guttural, hungry.

“Joseph!” Jill screams.

The first one hits him before anyone can react. The sound is wet, meaty—followed by a crack, a snarl, and the awful, high-pitched gurgle of a man dying. The flashlight clatters into the mud.

“Open fire!” Chris yells.

Gunfire erupts. The flashes strobe across the forest—bright, chaotic, deafening. Muzzle flares light up glimpses of horror: jaws locked around limbs, red eyes glinting through the smoke.

“Get back!” Barry shouts, firing his Colt Python. The recoil shakes his arm. One dog’s skull bursts like a ripe fruit, but two more take its place.

Wesker fires methodically, movements sharp and efficient even as chaos unravels around him. “Hold your positions—”

“Hold this!” Chris cuts him off, firing twice more as a creature lunges for Jill.

“Chris!” Jill stumbles backward, firing blind. Her bullets strike sparks off the trees.

Brad’s voice bursts from the helicopter’s radio, high with panic, “They’re all around us! We can’t hold out!”

Then the roar of rotors. Brad’s helicopter lifts, blades slicing the air.

“Brad! Don’t you dare—!” Chris shouts, but the words are drowned out by the engine’s thunder. In seconds, the chopper veers away, rising into the night sky, abandoning them.

“Damn it, he’s leaving us!” Barry bellows, rage and disbelief in his voice.

The pack closes in, forcing the four of them back, step by desperate step, until Chris' flashlight beam swings wide—catching the silhouette of a structure through the trees.

“There!” he shouts. “Move!”

They break into a run, gunfire flashing behind them as they fight to keep the dogs at bay. The trees thin, the ground opening to reveal the looming shadow of a mansion. Its iron gates hang ajar, its windows glowing faintly with sickly light.

They stumble across the threshold, slamming the heavy wooden doors shut just as the pack hurls itself against them. Snarls and claws rake against the wood, but for now, it holds.

Breathing hard, Jill presses her back to the door, her chest heaving. Her hands shake. “Joseph…” Her voice cracks on the name, tears shining in her eyes.

Barry lowers his revolver, his face pale beneath his beard. “He didn’t deserve that.” He swallows hard, guilt heavy in his voice. “I should’ve covered him. Should’ve been faster.”

Chris, sweat beading on his brow, stares at the floor. He doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw and the tremor in his hands speak for him. He’s lost too many people before. He knows the sting of helplessness. And it never gets easier.

Wesker adjusts his sunglasses, voice calm and detached. “We can’t dwell on Frost. He’s gone. Survival is our priority now.”

Jill shoots him a glare, grief twisting into anger. “How can you say that? He was one of us.”

“Emotions will get you killed,” Wesker replies coolly. “If you want to live through this, focus.”

Jill’s eyes flash, “You heartless—”

Chris steps between them, his voice rough but steady. “Enough. We stick together. That’s how we get out of here alive.”

The team falls silent, the echoes of Joseph’s screams still burning in their ears. Outside, the scratching and snarling fades, leaving only the heavy silence of the mansion around them.

It looms, vast and oppressive, every corridor hiding secrets, every shadow a threat.

And though none of them say it aloud, they all feel the same thing settle over them:

This house is worse than the forest.

Barry mutters under his breath, revolver still clutched tight. “This place… it’s like a damn castle.”

Chris keeps his weapon raised, eyes scanning the polished marble floor, the twin staircases, the darkened hallways stretching off into unknown corners. Every instinct screams that they are not safe. “Stay sharp,” he says. His voice echoes in the cavernous space, sounding small in comparison.

A sound breaks through—the crack of a gunshot, distant but unmistakable. The three spin toward the left-hand corridor.

“Someone’s alive,” Jill breathes, hope lighting her eyes.

“Or something else is,” Wesker counters coolly, tilting his head in that direction. “Check it out. We’ll cover the area.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Barry and Jill exchange a look. He nods, and together they head toward the sound, boots whispering across the cold tile.

—

The dining room is a long, elegant chamber, dominated by a massive wooden table. Silver candlesticks gather dust at its center, and a grandfather clock ticks solemnly against the far wall. The gunshot echoes linger in Barry’s head as he scans the room.

“Over there,” Jill whispers. She gestures toward a small side corridor.

They move in tandem, Barry leading. The narrow hall smells of damp stone. At its end lies a door, slightly ajar. From inside comes a faint, wet sound—like lips smacking, like meat being torn.

Barry pushes the door open.

The sight freezes him where he stands.

Slumped against the tiled floor is Kenneth. His eyes are wide, glassy, his throat ripped open so savagely it looks like a bear attack. Blood soaks his vest and spills in rivulets across the floor. And crouched over him, hunched and moving with grotesque slowness, is the thing.

It looks human. Or it once did. Its skin is gray and slack, patches hanging loose from bone. Its uniform is tattered, soaked red. It lifts its head from Kenneth’s body, strings of flesh dangling from its mouth, and fixes dead, milky eyes on Barry and Jill.

“Oh my God…” Jill whispers, horror choking her.

The thing rises with agonizing slowness, letting out a low moan that vibrates in their bones. It shuffles toward them, arms outstretched, hunger radiating from its every movement.

Barry raises his pistol, swallowing bile. “Don’t look, Jill.”

The gunshot cracks, deafening in the confined space. The creature’s skull bursts, spraying dark matter across the wall. It collapses beside Kenneth’s body, finally still.

Jill stands frozen, staring at Kenneth. Her teammate. Her friend. She presses a trembling hand to her mouth, her breath hitching.

Barry kneels beside the body, his chest tightening as he closes Kenneth’s eyes with a gentle hand. “We’re too late,” he says quietly. His throat feels raw. “They were slaughtered.”

Jill crouches, her voice breaking. “He must have been alone when it happened. We should’ve been here sooner. Maybe we—”

“Don’t,” Barry cuts in sharply, though his voice wavers. He shakes his head, staring down at Kenneth’s lifeless face. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

They step into the adjoining room, the heavy oak doors creaking open to reveal a hall of faded luxury. Candle sconces cast wavering light across the long table set for a dinner that never came. Silverware glints faintly in the gloom. A grandfather clock ticks somewhere, soft and solemn, the only sign of time in a place that feels long abandoned.

Barry moves toward the far end of the room, boots scuffing against the marble. The fire in the ornate hearth has long gone cold, but the ashes still cling to the grate like clotted dust.

“What?” he mutters, frowning as he crouches.

Jill walks over, her boots making quiet, careful sounds against the floor. “What is it?”

Barry touches two fingers to a dark puddle spreading out over the polished stone. It’s thick. Still tacky. He rubs it between his fingers, sniffs, and grimaces.

“Blood,” he says, his voice low. Then, after a pause— Jill, see if you can find any other clues. I’ll be examining this.” He stares at it a second longer, the shadows playing across his broad face. “Hope this is not Chris or Wesker’s blood…”

Jill exhales slowly, suppressing the chill that creeps up her spine. She nods and turns away, scanning the room—the glint of a candlestick, the scuffed edges of the rug, the faint smell of rot in the air. The mansion feels wrong. Not abandoned—watchful.

—

Barry moves along a shadowed balcony, his flashlight beam cutting across broken furniture and cracked windows. He finds Forest slumped against the railing, his face pale, body limp. Relief floods him.

“Forest!” Barry rushes forward, kneeling beside him. He shakes his shoulder. “Hey, hang in there, kid.”

But when Forest’s eyes snap open, they’re clouded, inhuman. With a guttural snarl, he lunges.

Barry stumbles back, shock freezing his limbs as his old teammate claws at him with unnatural strength. For a split second, he sees the Forest he knew—a young man who cracked nervous jokes, who carried the team’s heavy gear without complaint. And then it’s gone, replaced by this monster.

Barry raises his revolver, his hands shaking. “I’m sorry, kid…”

The shot rings out, echoing across the balcony. Forest jerks, then collapses, his body twitching before finally going still. Barry stares down at him, chest heaving, eyes wet.

“You didn’t deserve this either,” he whispers, voice breaking. He rubs a trembling hand over his beard. “God forgive me…”

—

Every flicker of candlelight dances across marble and shadow, each whisper of the chandelier chains above echoing like a heartbeat. Jill and Barry step cautiously into the grand Main Hall, the sound of their boots clattering against the polished floor amplifying the vast emptiness of the place.

“Wesker!” Barry’s voice bellows, echoing through the corridors and ricocheting up the grand staircase.

No answer. Only the soft tick of the hall clock and the rustle of unseen drafts creeping through the cracks of the old windows.

Jill glances around, her gloved fingers tightening on her Beretta. The air smells faintly of polish, old wood, and… something metallic, distant and unpleasant.

“Help me look for him, Jill,” Barry says gruffly, scanning the balcony above with wary eyes. “And don’t leave this hall for the time being.”

“Got it,” she replies, already moving toward the far side of the room.

They split up—Barry heading left, toward the west staircase, and Jill circling right, sweeping her flashlight across the massive pillars and shadowed alcoves. The beam flickers over dusty portraits, a cracked vase, a dark spot on the marble that makes her stomach twist.

Her heart beats steady but sharp. Years in the field taught her to listen—to the air, to the silences between creaks.

Nothing.

Barry’s footsteps echo faintly from the other side of the hall.

“Find anything, Jill?” he calls out, his voice softer now but still carrying that protective edge he never quite loses around her.

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “What’s this all about? I can’t figure it out at all.”

Barry rubs a hand over his jaw, frowning. “Beats me, too.”

“Now it’s Wesker’s turn to disappear,” Jill mutters under her breath. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Barry exhales heavily. “Well, it can’t be helped. Let’s search for him separately.”

Jill looks up sharply. “You sure?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll check the dining room again. You take the opposite side. We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Alright,” she agrees, but not without a flicker of unease.

Barry adjusts his grip on his revolver. “This mansion is gigantic. We could get into trouble if we get lost.” Then, softening a little, he adds, “We should start from the first floor, okay?”

Then he pauses, fishing something out from his vest pocket. A small metallic glint catches the light.

“And… Jill,” he says, smiling faintly, “here’s a lockpick. Might be handy if you—the master of unlocking—take it with you.”

Jill huffs a quiet laugh, reaching for the small black leather roll already clipped at her hip. She unrolls it, and the light catches on a gleaming collection of perfectly crafted picks and tension tools, all neatly slotted and lined with precision. Embossed at the flap, in tiny gold letters, are two initials: J.V.

Barry raises a brow. “You still carry that thing?”

“Of course I do,” Jill says with a soft grin, fingers brushing the gold lettering. “Tim gave it to me.”

Barry’s smile widens, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Right. I remember that Christmas. He was what—eight?”

“Yeah.” Jill chuckles under her breath, remembering the boy’s earnest little handwriting on the tag. ‘For the Master of Unlocking — in case you ever get stuck.’

Barry laughs, low and warm—a sound that briefly cuts through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. “Kid’s got taste.”

“Kid’s a genius,” Jill says softly, rolling the kit shut and clipping it back into place. “And… honestly? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a better gift.”

Barry nods, that knowing gleam of pride in his eyes fading back into focus as he glances around the dark hall. “Listen,” he says, voice firm again. “If something happens, let’s meet up back here.”

Jill straightens, giving him a mock salute and a smirk. “Yes, sir.”

Barry chuckles. “This time,” he promises, “I’ll be there.”

He turns and heads for the dining room, the sound of his boots fading into the distance.

Jill watches him go for a moment longer, then exhales. The mansion feels heavier now—quiet, but watching. She grips her Beretta and turns toward the eastern corridor, the shadow of her steps stretching long across the marble.

—

The small anteroom feels deceptively quiet when Jill steps back inside.

Her boots echo faintly against the tiled floor. She exhales softly, holstering her pistol and sliding the weapon into place with professional ease.

It’s only then that she hears it.

Click.

The sound is sharp—mechanical, deliberate. Not the benign creak of old wood or the sigh of a drafty hall. This one carries intention.

Jill freezes. Her pulse kicks up.

A second later, the faintest groan of metal fills the air. The hair on her arms rises. She looks up—

—and her blood runs cold.

The ceiling. 

It’s moving.

“Hey—” she starts, disbelieving, stepping backward as dust trickles from the edges of the ornate molding. The grinding grows louder. The chandelier above begins to sway. “What’s going on!?”

The walls themselves seem to close in around her, the ceiling lowering inch by inch, pressing the air out of the room. Panic flickers in her chest like fire through dry grass. She rushes back toward the door and grabs the handle, wrenching it hard.

Locked.

Her breath comes fast now. “No, no, no—” She kicks at it, shoulder-slams it. Nothing. “Barry!?” she yells, her voice hoarse. “Barry! The door won’t open! Help me, please! Quick!”

From the other side comes a muffled, alarmed shout.

“Jill? Is that you, Jill? What happened?!”

Relief and fear collide inside her. “Barry!” she screams again, louder this time. The ceiling is now inches closer, the metallic groan deafening. The once-beautiful chandelier shatters, scattering crystal shards across the floor as the shadow above her darkens.

“Stay away from the door!” Barry’s voice booms through the wood, rough and commanding. “I’m gonna kick this door down!”

She stumbles back, pressing herself flat against the wall beside the door, heart slamming against her ribs.

Then—

CRACK!

The door bursts open with a splintering roar, the hinges screaming in protest. Barry’s massive frame fills the doorway, gun in one hand, his other arm braced against the frame.

“Hurry! This way!”

Jill doesn’t hesitate. She bolts forward, ducking under his arm just as the ceiling groans one last time and slams against the floor with a thunderous crash. The impact shakes the walls, sending a gust of dust and debris into the corridor.

They both stumble out into the green-lit hallway, coughing. The silence afterward feels almost mocking.

Barry straightens first, his chest rising and falling heavily. His revolver is still clutched in his right hand, smoke curling faintly from the barrel—though it’s hard to tell if from the gun or the sheer heat of his adrenaline.

He turns to Jill, a grin tugging at his lips despite the chaos. “That was too close,” he says, shaking his head. “You were almost a Jill sandwich.”

For a second, she just blinks at him. Then—despite herself—she laughs. A shaky, incredulous laugh that breaks through the leftover panic. “You’re right,” she admits, brushing dust from her shoulder. “God, Barry—thanks for saving my life.”

His smile softens, the humor dimming into quiet concern. “Anytime, partner.”

But Jill’s sharp mind catches on something. Her tone shifts, still gentle but edged with suspicion. “Barry… didn’t you say you were going back to the dining room? What are you doing here?”

Barry hesitates. Just a moment—but enough. The flicker of guilt, the half-second pause before his voice comes, easy and casual.

“Uh… I just had something I wanted to check,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

Jill studies him for a heartbeat, the air between them tense but unspoken. Then she sighs and holsters her pistol again.

“Alright,” she says, voice steady. “Let’s get back to finding Wesker and Chris.”

Barry nods, relief barely masked under his gruff tone. “Right.”

—

The marble hallway stretches in eerie silence, the air heavy with the scent of decay and old dust. Jill’s boots click softly against the polished floor as she moves through the corridor, her flashlight gliding across the cracked walls and tattered paintings. She and Barry—well, to be honest it was only Barry—decided that it would be best if they split up once again to cover more ground in this gigantic mansion.

Something shifts ahead.

Her light catches on a slumped figure near the far wall. The sight halts her breath.

“Richard?” she calls out, her voice echoing faintly.

The figure stirs weakly.

She hurries forward and drops to her knees beside him. His uniform is torn, the fabric stained dark around his ribs and shoulder. His face is pale, slick with sweat.

“Richard! What happened?” Jill presses, her gloved hand bracing his arm.

His eyes flutter open, dazed but recognizing her through the haze. “Oh, Jill…” His voice trembles. “This house… is dangerous… There are terrible demons…” A sharp gasp escapes him as pain wracks his body. “Ouch—”

Jill’s heart clenches. “You’re injured!” she exclaims, scanning his injuries. A deep, purpling bite mark wraps around his torso and arm. “What kind of demon attacked you?”

Richard’s lips tremble as he forces the words out. “It was a huge… snake… and also… poisonous…” His voice cracks into a low groan.

Jill’s stomach drops. “Poisonous? Oh no… Richard, hold on!” She squeezes his shoulder gently, her training and instincts colliding with genuine fear.

He swallows hard, struggling to breathe evenly. “There’s… serum…” he whispers. “Oh no…” His eyes flicker with pain and guilt. “Rebecca said… she’d find some for me. But she’s… missing.”

“Rebecca?” Jill’s eyes widen. “Rebecca’s here?!” For a moment, shock breaks through the tension. “No problem,” she says quickly, forcing composure back into her tone. “I’ll get the serum—and I’ll find Rebecca, too. I promise.”

Richard gives a faint, grateful nod. “Be… careful…”

Jill presses his arm softly against the floor. “I’ll be back soon,” she assures him—and she means it.

Then she’s on her feet, moving swiftly down the hall.

The mansion’s corridors stretch endlessly, shadows warping with each flicker of light. Jill’s breathing grows shallower—not from exhaustion, but urgency. Every second ticks by like a death knell in her mind.

She retraces old paths—past ornate doors, through the broken gallery, down the stairs lined with blood-stained portraits. Her pulse quickens when she spots the medical storage room, its door barely ajar.

Inside, the scent of disinfectant and decay clash in the air. She sweeps her light across the counters—old bandages, shattered vials—and then her gaze catches on a familiar, dusty case labeled in faded ink:

SERUM.

Jill exhales shakily, relief washing over her. She grabs the vial and a syringe, securing them carefully in her pack.

Standing there in the quiet, she closes her eyes for just a moment—hands trembling faintly as she bows her head.

“Rebecca,” she whispers, voice soft as a prayer, “please be safe.”

The words hang in the stale air, fragile but sincere. She opens her eyes again, resolve hardening like tempered steel.

Then she runs.

Back through the endless maze of halls, the light of her flashlight slicing through the dark. The mansion groans and creaks around her, but she doesn’t slow—not for the flicker of a shadow, not for the echo of a distant growl.

She only runs faster.

Because Richard’s life depends on her.

—

The hallway is silent when Jill bursts back through its archway, her breath ragged and her pulse thundering in her ears. She nearly slips on the marble as she skids to her knees beside Richard.

“Richard,” she gasps, setting down her pack with shaking hands, “I’ve got it. I’ve got the serum.”

His eyes are half-lidded now. His breathing is shallow, each inhale a struggle. Sweat slicks his skin, and his fingers twitch weakly against the floor.

“Here’s the serum. Hold on,” Jill murmurs, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers. “I’ll give you a shot now.”

Her hands steady with effort as she slides the needle in, pushing the antidote into his bloodstream. The syringe clatters lightly against the floor when she pulls it free. “It’s okay. It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” she whispers, more to herself than him.

For a moment, he seems to breathe easier. But then—

“Jill…” His voice cracks, so faint she has to lean close to hear. “Here’s… my radio…” His fingers fumble at his belt, weakly offering it to her. “You should… keep it…”

The radio slips from his hand and hits the floor with a dull clatter.

“Richard?” she breathes, reaching for him.

But his voice falters—his eyes unfocus—and the next sound that escapes him is a ragged, shuddering gasp. Blood seeps fresh from the wound on his shoulder, darker now, spreading fast through his torn uniform.

“No—no, no, no—Richard!” Jill presses her hand to his chest, shaking him lightly. “Hey! Stay with me. You’re gonna be fine, okay? We just—we just need to get you somewhere safe—”

He doesn’t answer.

His body convulses once, a sharp, jerking movement that stills too quickly. His hand rises—barely—and brushes the air near her shoulder, like he’s reaching for something that isn’t there. His eyes meet hers one last time.

“Jill…” He exhales her name as a sigh. “Be careful…”

Then nothing.

His arm falls limply to the ground. His eyes glaze over.

The world goes quiet.

Jill stays there for a long time, frozen, her hands still pressed against his chest as if she can force his heart to start again. Her vision blurs. The marble beneath her knees feels cold—too cold.

“Dammit,” she whispers hoarsely, voice cracking. “No…”

Her body folds forward, forehead resting against the fabric of his blood-soaked vest. The tears come silently, hot and relentless. She grips his vest in her fists, shaking her head.

“You were just— you were just supposed to hang on,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “I was right here. You weren’t supposed to—”

She can’t finish.

The radio’s static hums faintly beside them, filling the silence with a low, empty crackle. Jill reaches for it slowly, closing Richard’s fingers around the device once more before bowing her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I should’ve been faster.”

The mansion creaks around her—somewhere far off, a door groans open, a wind stirs the curtains—but she doesn’t move. She stays beside him, a soldier in the dark, mourning another fallen comrade.

When she finally stands, her legs shake beneath her. The tears have dried, but the grief hasn’t. She looks down at him one last time, brushing the hair from his forehead with the back of her glove.

“Rest easy, Richard,” she says softly. “We’ll finish this. I swear it.”

—

The air in the attic is thick—dust and decay hanging heavy, stirred only by the whisper of Jill’s cautious footsteps. Her flashlight beam sweeps across the wooden beams, the scattered debris, the faint glint of moisture on the floor that she tells herself isn’t blood.

She takes another step toward the center of the room, scanning the walls for movement. There’s something about this place that prickles beneath her skin—a kind of weight in the air, oppressive and waiting.

Then she hears it.

A low, dragging sound. Like something enormous pulling itself across the boards.

Jill freezes. The beam of her light trembles faintly. The sound grows louder, closer—followed by a wet scrape, then another. Her stomach turns cold.

And then—

It erupts.

From the far wall, a massive serpent bursts through a gaping hole, splintering wood and spraying dust into the air. The floorboards quake beneath its weight as it rises, coiling and uncoiling, its scales slick and glistening like oil under her flashlight.

The hiss that follows reverberates through her bones—three long, drawn-out sounds that seem to mock her fear.

Jill’s breath catches. “Oh my god.”

The snake—no, the monster—rears back, jaws yawning open wide enough to swallow her whole. Twin fangs gleam. The air reeks of venom and rot.

“Shit!” She dives sideways as it lunges, the wooden floor splintering where she stood moments before. Her shoulder slams into a crate, pain sparking through her body, but she’s already raising her gun.

She fires once—twice—three times. Each shot cracks through the attic, echoing in the suffocating dark.

The creature recoils, hissing furiously. It thrashes, tail sweeping across the room, smashing boxes, splintering beams. Jill rolls out of the way just as the tail crashes down where she had been, sending shards of wood into the air.

Her pulse pounds. Her lungs burn.

The image of Richard flashes through her mind—his pale face, his voice trembling. “It was a huge… snake…”

This is it.

This is what killed him.

Jill’s grip tightens. “You bastard.”

She fires again, the muzzle flash lighting the serpent’s face—its scales torn and glistening with blood, its tongue flicking in rage. It lashes toward her, and she barely dodges, feeling the wind of its jaws snap inches from her arm.

Her heart is hammering too loud to think. The room tilts and shakes as she scrambles backward, reloading with trembling hands. She steadies herself, exhales, and fires again.

The bullets tear through its hide. The beast shivers violently, the strength in its movements beginning to falter. It hisses once more—low, almost pained—then retreats. Its enormous body slides back toward the hole in the wall, vanishing inch by inch into the darkness from which it came.

The sound fades, the last echo of its tail scraping the floorboards before silence returns.

Jill stands there for a moment, her gun still raised, finger trembling on the trigger. Only the creak of the attic answers her.

Slowly, she lowers the weapon. Her breathing is ragged, uneven. Her eyes flick toward the gaping hole—the snake’s lair—and then back to the floor.

Blood, dark and heavy, streaks the wood where it once lay.

She sinks to one knee, exhaustion catching up with her all at once. The smell of gunpowder burns her throat, mixing with the stench of decay. Her hands shake as she presses them together, trying to steady her breathing.

Her thoughts drift—briefly, painfully—to Richard. 

To the serum that came too late.

To his hand falling limp in hers.

“I found your demon,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “And I made it pay.”

Her words vanish into the stillness, but she means them.

—

The dormitory hallway smells of damp wood and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe, or rust that’s been left to fester too long. The air is still, the kind of heavy quiet that hums in her ears after too much silence. Jill stops in front of a door labeled 002, her gloved hand brushing the cracked paint on its surface. She tells herself she’s only listening for movement—footsteps, a groan, the low drag of the infected—but then she hears something that makes her blood run cold.

Voices.

She presses her ear to the door.

“It can’t be true!” Barry’s voice—low, raw, shaking. She’s never heard it like this before. “I’ve been told a different story.”

Then another voice, smooth and precise, cutting through the air like glass. Wesker.

“Hey, there’s nothing we can do. The situation has changed.”

Jill’s fingers tighten around the handle. Her stomach twists. Wesker and Barry. Together. 

Barry’s voice cracks again, threaded with desperation. “But it’s not necessary for you to destroy S.T.A.R.S.!”

A slow, unfeeling sigh follows. “It’s not my intention,” Wesker answers, almost kindly. “It’s Umbrella’s. I can’t help it.”

Umbrella. That name slithers through Jill’s mind like poison.

She feels herself go still, breath trapped behind her ribs. Umbrella—the shadow behind Raccoon City’s every nightmare, the company tied to every biohazard they’ve uncovered. The same Umbrella that funded S.T.A.R.S. equipment, that trained Wesker himself.

And Barry—Barry of all people—is talking to him.

Then she hears the worst of it.

“What about my family?!” Barry’s voice breaks, shaking with a fear Jill’s never heard in him before.

Wesker’s tone is ice-cold. “I will guarantee their safety.”

There’s silence on the other side. And then Barry’s voice again, softer, hollow. “So everything depends on me... huh?”

Jill steps back as though struck. For a moment, she just stands there, her thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Her throat burns.

Barry.

Her partner. Her friend. The one who made bad jokes to keep her steady when everything went to hell. The one who saved her life—twice. The one who teased her about Tim’s lockpick roll, said she’d “turn it into a deadly weapon one day.”

Now he’s bargaining.

Her pulse hammers. She wants to believe she misheard—that there’s some other explanation. But Wesker’s voice still echoes in her head, calm and confident. “I can’t help it.”

The lie is too clean.

Jill forces herself to breathe, to swallow the panic clawing up her throat. She needs to see him. She needs to look him in the eye.

She grips the door handle and pushes. It creaks open, the sound echoing down the dim hallway. The light flickers—sickly yellow spilling over cracked tile. At the far end, Barry stands with his back to her, his shoulders broad and slumped, the revolver heavy at his side.

He turns at the sound.

“Jill,” he says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

She searches his face. His expression is wrong—too controlled, too calm. There’s a weight behind his eyes, something unspoken, something afraid.

“Uh, hi, Barry.” Her voice catches in her throat. “I… I heard someone talking.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between them.

Then he laughs. Too quickly. Too loud. “So you heard it too? I think I’m getting old. Talking to myself’s becoming a habit.”

Jill’s brows draw together. Talking to himself. That’s his story? He looks everywhere but her.

“Barry,” she says softly, taking a hesitant step forward, “something must have happened to you. Am I wrong? You sound… strange.”

Her tone is careful, measured, but the worry bleeds through. She wants him to tell her she’s imagining it. That it’s all stress, exhaustion, the paranoia of being trapped in a place that devours people alive.

But Barry doesn’t.

He looks at her for a long moment—really looks—and then he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well, it seems I made you worry. But don’t.” His voice is low, gentle. It almost sounds like the old Barry again. Almost. “Maybe I’ve been a nervous wreck since all of this madness started.”

He forces a chuckle that dies in his throat. “Well, I think I’ll go get some fresh air for a change.”

He starts to walk past her, the scent of gun oil and damp fabric trailing faintly after him. His steps echo hollowly down the corridor. He stops at the doorway and glances back with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I told ya, don’t worry... I’ll just go and get some fresh air...” His voice falters, turns bitter. “...and be eaten by a monster.”

Before she can answer—before she can reach out and stop him—he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him with a dull thud.

Jill stands there, staring at the empty hallway, the silence pressing in like a physical weight. She feels something crumble quietly in her chest.

“Barry…” she whispers, the word breaking apart as it leaves her lips.

Her hand trembles when she brings it up to her mouth. She bites down on a sob, but it escapes anyway—a quiet, shuddering sound that fills the narrow hall.

He’s lying to her. She can feel it in her bones. And whatever he’s hiding, it’s tearing him apart.

Jill drags in a breath, shaky but determined, and forces herself to move again. The light flickers overhead as she walks, her shadow stretched long and sharp across the wall.

She tells herself she’ll find him again. That she’ll make him tell her the truth.

—

The air in the music room feels wrong the moment Jill steps inside.

It’s colder here, the kind of chill that seeps through fabric and clings to skin. Her boots click lightly on the tiled floor, the sound echoing in the cavernous stillness. The faint scent of dust, old varnish, and smoke lingers—remnants of a place that once held beauty. The piano stands like a relic of another time, its polished surface dulled by age, its keys ghostly white in the dim light.

She draws in a slow breath and lets her fingers hover above the keys, the soldier’s instinct at war with the part of her that still remembers music. For one brief second, she imagines silence breaking into sound, a melody unraveling through the haunted mansion—something human amid the rot and blood.

Then the air shifts.

A low hiss scrapes the silence apart.

Jill freezes. Her pulse quickens. From the black mouth of the fireplace, something begins to move.

The stone groans. Ash scatters. And then—it emerges.

The snake.

It’s larger than she remembers, its scales glistening in the dim light, the thick muscles of its body dragging heavily against the floor. Deep scars cut through its hide, jagged and dark, its flesh torn where bullets once bit deep. It remembers her. She can see it—something primal in its single, unblinking gaze that burns with recognition.

Her heart hammers—but not with fear.

With rage.

It’s the same monster. The one that tore into Richard. The one whose venom had stolen his voice mid-sentence, whose bite had left him gasping in her arms, whispering useless prayers.

And now it dares crawl back from whatever pit it slithered into.

“You again,” Jill breathes, voice low, trembling with fury. Her hand tightens on her pistol. “You bastard.”

The snake strikes.

She dives aside just as the beast’s massive jaw crashes down, splintering the wood beneath her boots. A section of the floor gives way, tiles exploding upward with the sheer force of impact. Dust and debris fill the air, stinging her eyes.

Jill rolls to her knees, her breath ragged, and fires. One, two, three shots. Each one slams into the creature’s neck, spraying blood that steams against the cold air. It rears back, hissing, thrashing violently, its tail slamming into a chair and sending it crashing into the wall.

“Come on!” she snarls, firing again. “You killed him—you killed Richard!”

The words tear from her throat like a scream. It’s not just the snake she’s shouting at anymore. It’s everything.

The mansion. The silence. The damn mission that’s gone so far off the rails she can’t even tell who’s alive anymore.

Chris, nowhere to be found.
Wesker and Barry—lying, whispering behind closed doors.
Rebecca, somewhere out there, alone.

And Jill Valentine, the supposed “master of unlocking,” trapped in a nightmare she can’t pry open or fix.

The snake lunges again, its massive body whipping across the room like a living battering ram. Jill ducks, the tail smashing into the piano behind her, sending a discordant scream of notes through the air. She fires again—once, twice, then her clicks empty.

She reloads on instinct, gritting her teeth as the cylinder spins. Her hands are steady, but her jaw is tight as she reloads, her entire body shaking with adrenaline and something deeper—grief turned to fury.

The beast rears up again, towering above her. Its mouth opens wide, black and glistening with venom. The sight of its fangs sparks something feral in her chest.

“Not this time.”

Jill takes aim.

The next shot slams into its exposed muscle. The next, into its wounded eye. The creature convulses violently, the entire room trembling with its thrashing. She empties the clip without hesitation, each bullet a heartbeat of anger—each one carrying the faces of everyone she’s lost.

Richard.
Rebecca.
Chris.
Barry.

Even Wesker’s face flashes in her mind—and for a heartbeat, she wishes it were him she was shooting at.

The serpent lets out a hideous screech that vibrates through the walls, its monstrous body coiling in on itself as Jill fires the final round. The bullet sinks deep, and for a long, suspended moment, time seems to still.

Then, with a sickening, wet crack, the giant snake convulses. Purple-black fluid oozes from its wounds, sizzling as it hits the tile. Its body twitches violently, slamming against the floor hard enough to rattle the furniture. Jill steps back, panting, her gun trembling slightly in her hand, eyes blazing with exhaustion and fury.

“Come on,” she whispers hoarsely, as if daring it to move again. “Get back up, you fucker. You killed Richard—you don’t get to just die easily.”

The snake hisses weakly in reply, its head slumping forward. It writhes one last time before collapsing completely. Its massive body begins to dissolve, flesh melting into a vile, steaming puddle of purple goo that stains the floor. The stench of rot fills the air. Jill watches silently as the creature disintegrates before her eyes—one more nightmare erased from this cursed mansion.

When the last remnants fade, the silence that follows is suffocating. Jill lowers her weapon slowly, her shoulders shaking—not from fear, but from anger. Her breathing comes shallow and sharp, each inhale edged with the bitterness of loss.

She swallows hard, the silence pressing down on her again. Her reflection wavers faintly in a shard of broken glass at her feet—pale, blood-specked, and furious. She doesn’t recognize the woman staring back at her.

Her voice breaks the quiet, small but unyielding. “I swear to God, I’m getting us out of here.”

And for the first time since Richard died, she doesn’t sound like she’s trying to convince herself.

—

Chris moves cautiously down the narrow corridor, his pistol steady, flashlight slicing through the darkness in a thin beam. Every sound feels amplified—the creak of the floorboards, the distant whisper of wind seeping through the cracks. The air smells of old wood, iron, and something acrid beneath it—blood, faint but unmistakable.

He reaches a heavy door at the end of the hallway and pushes it open with his shoulder. The hinges groan softly. Inside, the dim glow of a single overhead bulb flickers over rows of dusty medical supplies—vials, syringes, gauze, and broken glass scattered across the floor.

And then he sees her.

Rebecca lies motionless near the far shelf, her head resting against the cold tile. For a terrifying moment, Chris' stomach drops—until he spots the slow rise and fall of her chest.

“Rebecca,” he mutters, rushing to her side. He kneels, setting his gun aside, and lightly shakes her shoulder. “Hey, kid. C’mon. Wake up.”

Her eyelids flutter weakly. She gasps, bolting upright—and immediately scrambles backward, panic flashing across her face. “Richard!” she blurts out, breathless. “The serum—I have to—”

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Chris says, steadying her before she can stand too fast. “You’re okay. You were out cold.”

Rebecca grips his arm tightly, eyes wide. “Someone knocked me out,” she insists. “I swear—I was in the storage room getting the antivenom, and then everything went black. I didn’t see who it was, but—Chris, Richard’s dying out there!” Her voice breaks, frustration and guilt bleeding through. “He was waiting for me to come back—he trusted me.”

Chris squeezes her shoulder gently, grounding her. “Rebecca,” he says firmly, “listen to me. You did everything you could. Richard wouldn’t want you blaming yourself. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s still fighting knowing him.”

Tears threaten to spill down her cheeks, but she bites them back, shaking her head. “He needed me. And I failed him.”

Chris exhales slowly. The words twist something deep in his chest. He looks down for a moment before murmuring, “You know… Tim once tried to patch me up after I got clipped during a training drill. Kid nearly passed out at the sight of blood.”

Rebecca sniffs, caught off guard. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did,” Chris says with a faint, tired smile. “He was pale as a ghost. I remember him stammering, ‘I’m fine! I just—uh—need juice!’”

That earns a choked laugh from Rebecca. It’s small, brittle, but real.

Chris softens his voice. “You told him something back then, remember? You said, ‘A medic’s job isn’t to save everyone—it’s to fight for as many as they can.’”

For a moment, the room is silent except for the soft hum of the flickering bulb. Rebecca presses a trembling hand against her forehead, trying to steady herself.

“I just…” she whispers. “What if I’m too late and he—” she gasps, pressing her palm against her eyes.

Chris places a hand on her back, warm and steady. “If you are,” he says quietly. “You’ll say goodbye by surviving. For Richard. For all of them.”

Rebecca nods slowly, her breathing evening out. When she looks up again, there’s steel in her eyes, even if they’re rimmed with tears. “You’re right,” she murmurs. “We still have work to do.”

Chris rises and offers her a hand. She takes it without hesitation, pulling herself to her feet.

“Good,” he says with a faint grin. “Because I’m not letting you faint on me twice in one day.”

“Ha ha,” she mutters, brushing dust from her uniform. “You’re bleeding, by the way.”

Chris glances at the shallow cut on his arm. “It’s nothing.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrow. “Sit,” she orders, already rummaging through a nearby medkit. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Tim you cried the last time I gave you a shot.”

—

The screen flares white—too bright, too loud in the hush of the apartment. Then, like a wound opening, words bleed onto the monitor. The subject line. The headers. The company seal. All of it stamped and neat, and all of it wrong.

Tim’s fingers freeze halfway over the trackpad. The rest of the world falls away. The hum of the old air conditioner, the ticking pipes, the steady pulse of the city beyond the window—all of it shrinks until only the light exists. The glow paints his face in sterile blue, and for a heartbeat, he forgets to breathe.

He reads it once, then again, because words on a screen sometimes need repetition before the brain believes them.

Mail from the Chief of Security
CONFIDENTIAL
Attn: Chief of Security
Date: July 22, 1998 2:13

X Day is drawing up on us. Execute the following procedures within one week. Prompt actions are demanded.

1. Lure S.T.A.R.S. to the estate, and obtain B.O.W.'s raw combat data against S.T.A.R.S.
   
   
2. Collect two embryos of each mutated specimen as samples, excluding the Tyrant. Dispose of the Tyrant.
   
   
3. Ensure complete disposal of the Arklay Laboratory including all personnel and test animals. Disguise their deaths as an accident. When the above procedures are executed, report to headquarters for further instructions.

If for some reason you are unable to execute the procedure by the deadline, report immediately. In case of emergency situations, report directly to the extension number 5691.

Good luck. Umbrella Headquarters. Umbrella Inc.

Tim’s eyes catch the small gray line under the header. Forwarded.
Recipients: WESKER, ALBERT. BIRKIN, WILLIAM.

He stares until the names blur into each other, letters bleeding into ghosts. When they refocus, they aren’t words anymore—they’re men. Men with power. Men who don’t blink when they destroy lives.

Something cold crawls down his spine, slow and deliberate.

He reads the list again, this time hearing it.
Lure S.T.A.R.S. to the estate.
Obtain raw combat data.
Collect embryos.
Dispose of the Tyrant.
Destroy the lab.
Disguise their deaths.

Every word sounds like a countdown. Every bullet point is a coffin nail.

The air thickens in his lungs. His chest tightens until breathing hurts. His pulse drums between his teeth, hard and uneven.

He’s just a kid—and still, his hands don’t shake. They hover steady over the trackpad, tracing each digital scar like a surgeon examining proof of a crime.

The timestamp catches his eye: July 22, 1998.

Two days before Bravo’s mission.
Two days before the forest swallowed them.

Tim swallows hard, the sound too loud in the tiny room.

What if he’s too late?
What if this message—this neat, bureaucratic death sentence—is already written in blood across the Arklay mountains?
What if his friends are gone?
What if Bravo is gone?
What if Chris is already…

The thought hits him like a physical blow.

He leans back until it’s only the couch cushions that hold him up, breath shallow. An entire room of the Wayne manor might be full of files and lawyers and lawyers’ lawyers, but here—on this lone, stolen laptop—the ugly guts of it are brazen and flat as bone. Umbrella headquarters giving an instruction list reads like a butcher’s note.

Tim’s mind runs in jagged circles. The thumb drive in his pocket aches suddenly like a living thing. He imagined copying little bits—breadcrumbs to hand to Sherry so they could stitch the story together, prove it without shouting it across the internet. Now the breadcrumb is a bomb.

Careful. Careful. Alfred’s voice sits in his head, absent but steady: Be discreet, Timothy. Not because he wants to hide, but because people who plan murders don’t like small people pointing at them.

Tim opens a new note and types with the focused calm that only children who have practiced their homework in stolen hours can muster. He copies the email header verbatim, then the recipients, then the bullet points. He timestamps his own note: COPIED FROM WILLIAM BIRKIN LAPTOP—1998-07-22—02:13.

He snaps a picture of the screen with his phone—two quick taps, a soft mechanical click—and the image saves into the decoy folder, between a vacation JPEG and a blurry scan of a supermarket receipt he'd used earlier to smuggle files past casual searches. He encrypts the folder with a nonsense password he uses for his draft superhero username.

He thinks of calling Bruce and Dick. He thinks, but he stops because voices on the other end mean questions, and questions mean courtrooms and lawyers and an adult’s world that hides its scissors in their sleeves. He is not brave enough, or maybe he’s too brash, to drop this straight in their laps. Not yet.

He imagines the men on the email reading the list and smiling the way adults do when they can afford to be cruel. He imagines William’s hands, precise and neat, ticking off a to-do list. He imagines Wesker making the call that sinks the entire unit into the mountain like a stone in a pond.

The thought makes his stomach flip. He is a child and he has a map that will get people killed if handled wrong. He tries to be clever the way he’s learned: take enough, keep enough, call in backups only when he absolutely must.

He opens the recorder app and plays back the clip he made the other night in the vents—the briefing where somebody mentions Arklay and bodies and “cult.” He overlays a short voice note on the file: TIM_DERIVED: SEE EMAIL—LURE S.T.A.R.S.—T-001—ARKLAY DATES MATCH. SHOW SHERRY FIRST. KEEP HIDDEN.

He breathes so hard he hears himself. He saves the package, tests the password, and then, because the part of him that is still a boy that hates leaving things half-there, he types one more line into his notebook: DON’T LET THEM DESTROY EVIDENCE. DO NOT LET THEM BURY IT.

His fingers shake as he texts Sherry in their code: Found. It’s ugly. Don’t tell. The dots appear, then a curt reply: Be careful. —S

He exhales, a long, ragged sound, and for a second lets the child in him imagine simpler things—ice cream, comic books, a goofy dad who makes bad jokes. Then the world snaps back. Tim stands, stretches, and hunkers down on the couch once again and opens his own personal laptop. 

He has work to do. 

—

The apartment is smaller at night, shrunk down to the size of the couch and the glow of the laptop. Tim props his elbows on his knees and stares at his own machine like it’s a lifeboat, like if he can only find one right signal, one right channel, the world will stop tilting. His fingers hover over the keys and feel ridiculous—too small, too young, and suddenly, unbearably necessary.

He’s twelve and he’s been holding quiet for hours. The email on William’s laptop is a splinter under his skin: lure S.T.A.R.S. Dispose. The words loop in his head until they make the floor drop out from under him. He thinks of dark trees, of helicopters, of men who are supposed to be able to come when people call. He thinks of his friends somewhere where he can’t reach them. That thought is a hot, maddening thing that leaves him no choice.

Desperation tastes like cold air and battery hum. He pulls his own laptop close, the cheap plastic warm from his palms. He breathes in—one, two—and tells himself what he tells himself when he’s afraid: small steps, Tim. One thing at a time.

He opens his terminal out of habit, fingers moving faster than his brain. There’s no grandeur to it: just a jumble of tabs, half-done scripts, reference pages he once skimmed because they were interesting. Tonight, those scraps matter more than bedtime or algebra. He clutches at every scrap of knowledge he’s hoarded: sniffed packet names, the way radio menus can be buried under layers of settings, the tiny human errors people make when they trust machines more than they should.

He is careful—he has to be—but careful feels painfully slow. Each second is an invitation for something bad to happen. He’s imagining Enrico on the forest floor, or Rebecca’s thin shoulders hunched over a supply cupboard, waiting. That image is a drumbeat urging him on.

He doesn’t type a tutorial and he doesn’t ask for help. He pokes around the comms interface the way a kid hunts for a hidden latch—softly, expectantly, fingers worrying the edge of the thing until it gives. Static answers more than anything. A thousand little hisses and ghosts and dead channels that feel like mostly nothing and like everything all at once.

His hands shake now. Sweat slicks the palms that rest on the keys. He breathes on purpose, big, measured breaths—an old trick Dick showed him once when his nerves flared before trying something stupid. The trick helps a little, lets him think for a breath or two before the panic picks up again.

He scrolls through lists: channel numbers, timestamps, logged transmissions. He sees callsigns that mean nothing—half-remembered acronyms that folks at the precinct use like second languages. He tries one, then another, then a remembered frequency range from the overheard conversation in the vents—the briefing he recorded. He moves without overthinking, because overthinking now is a luxury he doesn’t have.

Most of it is noise. A woman coughing around seven in the morning, a kid somewhere with a shaky phone, a delivery truck’s squeal—everyday ghosts that make his chest ache because they are not the voice he wants. Once, for half a second, he thinks he catches a clipped voice: “…—Bravo Team—reply—” But it’s gone; the line folds back into static like a blanket thrown over a sleeping thing.

He tells himself he’s learning. He tells himself this is practice. He tells himself that even this small scrape of noise is something he can hold on to. It is not enough. The knowledge sits in his stomach like a stone. He can almost hear the helicopter rotors somewhere in the dark of the mountain, precise and cruel.

He imagines what it would sound like to cut through the interference clean—the relief that would wash through him if he heard a real human voice on the other end, steady and alive: This is Alpha. We are okay. Or This is Enrico—get the hell out of—Anything.

Instead he gets a ragged burst of a voice that might be a warning, might be a weather report, might be nothing at all. He leans closer until his forehead almost touches the screen. The cheap speakers crackle. A syllable—S.T.A.R.S.—and then a blast of static that feels like being slapped. His heart does something stupid and heroic: it launches.

Tim tries another approach—less technical, more detective: he seeds a short, coded message into a place someone might look if they were scrambling in an emergency. He drafts it fast, every letter a small prayer. He stops before he can send it anywhere, because sending means a footprint, and footprints get traced. He doesn’t want to be the child who signs his name to the thing that gets someone else killed.

He clicks alone, a small, stubborn refusal to surrender. He copies the tiny handful of data he has—timestamps, cryptic channel numbers, the sliver of a recorded voice—onto the thumb drive. The drive feels suddenly like an amulet. He palms it until his fingers go numb.

Time crawls. The streetlights outside blink and hum. Somewhere far away, a siren wails. He imagines the men in the mountains running, or sitting in broken helicopters, or not running at all. He imagines Rebecca’s hands working in the medical storeroom—maybe she’s already seen what he saw on Birkin’s screen. Perhaps she already knows. The not-knowing shreds him.

He is a child pretending at grown-up things, and his nerves are raw. The word desperate would fit him better than any cape ever could. He is clumsy in his bravery and brilliant in his fear. He types one last line into a file—short, clean, urgent—then hides it under a name no adult would ever click on without purpose: BirthdayPhotos_Backup.

—

The projector whirs softly to life as dust motes float lazily in the beam of light cutting across the room, and for a moment, everything feels eerily still. The click of the slide advancing echoes like a heartbeat.

The Umbrella logo burns against the white screen—clean, professional, and sterile. Beneath it, words that shouldn’t belong in the same sentence: Bio-Organic Weapon. Official Report.

Jill exhales slowly. Her reflection in the dark glass of the projector looks almost unrecognizable—mud-streaked, eyes shadowed, exhaustion sinking deep into her bones. She mutters under her breath, “Umbrella Inc. Bio-weapon Materials.”

She doesn’t need a degree in biology to know what that means. She’s seen the aftermath in the halls, the broken bodies of her teammates, the monsters roaming this godforsaken mansion. This—this slideshow—is the polished lie behind all that death.

The next click reveals the MA-39 Cerberus. The zombie dog.

Jill’s hands tighten against the desk. The slide shows two images—one of the creature’s emaciated frame, one of its ruined head. She can still hear the sound of claws scraping tile, the guttural growl that came right before the ambush in the courtyard. Joseph’s scream flashes in her mind, abrupt and final.

She grits her teeth and moves on.

Fi-3 Neptune. The shark. The picture looks clinical, detached—muscle, scale, and teeth catalogued neatly. She can still feel the way the walkway had trembled when it slammed against the tank glass. Cold, instinctive terror had gripped her spine. Jill presses the button again.

MA-121 Hunter.

The image shows it mid-leap, claws extended, scales taut under the light. She doesn’t realize she’s gripping her side until pain reminds her that one had already nearly gutted her. Its eyes were empty, its body built for one purpose: to kill.

Another slide.

T-002 Tyrant.

This one is different. The outline is almost human—almost—but wrong. Muscles mapped like weapon schematics, a bar graph listing data points she doesn’t understand but feels in her gut are measurements of destruction. Jill’s pulse quickens. This isn’t evolution. It's a deliberate design.

Then comes a blank slide.

The projector hums quietly, the silence pressing heavier by the second. It’s the kind of pause that doesn’t belong—a missing piece, an erased truth. She frowns, clicks forward.

The final image flickers to life.

Five people in lab coats, frozen mid-pose. Ordinary faces, but she can feel the chill crawling down her spine before she even understands why. Her eyes scan the image slowly—black slicked-back hair, brown hair, a woman with an icy stare. A man with messy black hair.

And then—

Her stomach turns to stone.

The last man. Blond hair. Sunglasses.

Her breath catches. “...Wesker.”

It’s not a possibility. It’s not a theory. It’s him. The man who ordered them into this nightmare. The man who smiled at her that morning, telling her she was the most reliable on the team. The one who split them up, who’s been conveniently missing since the chaos began.

Jill’s knees feel weak.

She stares at the image for a long time, her reflection flickering faintly over the glassy surface of the projector. Every choice Wesker made since they entered the mansion now rearranges itself in her head—the map of his orders, his timing, his silence. The picture confirms what her instincts have been screaming since the first betrayal of sound and shadow: they were never supposed to survive this.

Her throat burns, anger and nausea twisting together until the words come out hoarse. “You son of a bitch.”

The projector’s hum fills the silence again, low and steady, as if mocking her.

Jill shuts it off with a sharp snap, plunging the room into darkness. For a few seconds, she just stands there, eyes stinging in the black. The Umbrella logo still lingers in her vision like a ghost.

Then, quietly—like a promise whispered through clenched teeth—she says, “I’ll make sure the world sees you for what you’ve done.”

Then the door groans as it opens, the hinges protesting from years of disuse. Jill lifts her gun immediately—finger steady on the trigger, posture low. Every shadow feels like it could lunge. Every sound could mean another creature.

But when the beam of her flashlight hits Chris' face, her breath hitches—not from fear this time, but relief.

“Chris!”

Her voice cracks. For a second, the tension in her arms melts, and she lowers her weapon. Chris looks just as battered as she feels—mud on his uniform, a streak of blood down his temple—but his eyes light up when he sees her.

“Jill.” He exhales her name like he’s been holding it in for hours. Then, behind him, Rebecca steps through the doorway, visibly shaken but alive, followed closely by Barry.

Jill’s heart twists. She doesn’t move at first. Barry’s presence hits her like a blade pressing lightly against the ribs. Her instincts scream don’t trust him—echoes of the subtle pauses in his voice earlier, the way he kept glancing at Wesker before they split up, their hidden conversation. But she sees the familiar weariness in his eyes, the roughness of a man who’s been through hell at her side more than once.

She takes a slow breath and forces the suspicion down. Not yet. Not when people are still dying.

“God, it’s good to see you,” Barry mutters, stepping closer. His voice trembles with the weight of exhaustion. “I thought we’d lost you.”

“Almost did,” Jill replies, lips tight but steady. Her eyes flick briefly to his, searching—looking for something, a tell, a crack—but she lets it go. “You all right?”

He nods once. “I’ve been better.”

Rebecca moves closer, clutching her medic’s pouch, and Jill’s focus shifts instantly to her. The girl looks pale, still a little shaky on her feet. She’s trying to hold herself together, but her eyes betray the fear she’s been pushing down.

“Rebecca,” Jill says softly, “you held out on your own. That’s impressive.”

Rebecca lets out a faint, trembling laugh. “It’s more like I got lucky. I… I blacked out for a bit. Someone must’ve hit me. When I woke up, Chris found me.” Her eyes flick toward him, then back to Jill. “I’ve been trying to get the serum for Richard.”

Jill’s chest tightens. She looks away, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Jill?” Rebecca’s tone shifts, alarmed. “Where’s Richard?”

The silence that follows stretches too long. Jill looks back up, and in her expression, the answer is already there.

“Rebecca…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “He didn’t make it.”

Rebecca stares, her lips parting in disbelief. “No. No, that can’t—he—he was fine when I—” She cuts herself off, her voice faltering. Her shoulders begin to shake. “I was supposed to get the serum. If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t been knocked out, I could’ve—”

Jill steps forward, grasping her shoulders firmly. “Listen to me. It wasn’t your fault.”

Rebecca’s eyes glisten. “He trusted me, Jill. He told me to hurry—and I didn’t.”

Chris puts a hand on her back, grounding her with quiet strength. “Rebecca. Richard was already badly wounded. You did everything you could. If anyone’s to blame, it’s whatever did this to him.”

Jill nods, her jaw tightening. “And I made sure it didn’t live long enough to hurt anyone else.”

Rebecca’s gaze lifts to her, and there’s a flicker of surprise—followed by something like relief. “You killed it?”

“The snake,” Jill confirms, her tone cold but steady. “It’s gone. I made sure of it.”

Rebecca presses a trembling hand to her mouth, eyes welling again—not out of grief this time, but something closer to gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispers. “He would’ve wanted that.”

The group falls silent for a few beats, the only sound the faint dripping from a cracked pipe nearby. There’s no time to mourn, not properly, but the air between them thickens with shared loss.

Finally, Chris looks at Jill. “We’ve all seen pieces of what’s going on here, but none of it fits together. Did you find anything that could explain all this?”

Jill exhales, motioning toward a dusty projector on the desk behind her. “I did. I found a lab with a slide reel—Umbrella’s report on something they call Bio-Organic Weapons. They’ve been experimenting here. Dogs, sharks, humanoid creatures—the Hunters.”

Rebecca looks stricken, as though her worst fears have been given form. “Umbrella made them?”

“Yes,” Jill answers grimly. “All of them. And there’s more.” She pauses, steadying herself. “The final slide had a photo. Five researchers.” Her tone drops lower, quieter. “One of them was Wesker.”

Chris' jaw tightens instantly, his expression darkening. “What?”

“Blond hair. Sunglasses. Smirking like this was just another day at the office.” Jill’s words drip with venom. “He’s been working with Umbrella this whole time.”

She turns the projector on once again and five figures appear—lab coats, crisp and clean. A woman with an icy stare, three men expressionless, and—

“There,” Jill says sharply, stepping closer.

In the far right corner stands a man with slick blond hair and dark sunglasses, his arms crossed. His mouth curves just slightly—smug. Confident.

Chris' voice drops to a whisper. “…Wesker.”

Barry’s head jerks up. “That can’t be. No way.”

Rebecca’s breathing quickens. “That’s him,” she murmurs. “That’s him, Jill. Our captain.”

“Yeah,” Jill says bitterly, “and apparently one of Umbrella’s scientists.”

Barry takes a step forward, brow furrowed in disbelief. “There must be some mistake. Wesker’s been with S.T.A.R.S. for years—he—he wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Jill cuts in sharply.

Barry flinches like she’s struck him. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

Chris stares at the image a long moment longer. His jaw tightens, eyes like steel. “If this is true,” he says finally, his voice low and dangerous, “then Wesker’s been setting us up from the start.”

Rebecca covers her mouth again, whispering, “Umbrella made all of this. Every single one of them…”

Jill crosses her arms, the light of the slide reflecting off her tired, angry eyes. “It’s a slaughterhouse disguised as research. And we’re the control group.”

Chris steps forward, nodding grimly. “Then we end it. We find Wesker. We expose Umbrella. And if he’s down there somewhere…” His expression hardens. “We finish it.”

Rebecca wipes her eyes, drawing in a trembling breath. “For Richard,” she whispers.

“For all of them,” Jill agrees.

Barry quietly reloads his magnum, the metallic click loud in the stillness. He doesn’t meet Jill’s eyes.

—

The mansion presses down on them like a tomb. The air is too still, the silence too sharp. Every step feels like trespassing on something ancient, rotten, and hungry. Barry mutters under his breath about how much he hates this place, Jill scans every corner like shadows might bite, and Chris forces himself to move forward with the discipline of a soldier while his gut twists. Rebecca tries to keep close to him, her fingers white-knuckled on the grip of her handgun.

They’ve already lost people. Joseph in the woods, torn apart before their eyes. Kenneth bleeding out across the polished wood of the dining hall. Forest’s corpse twitching, shambling, rising. Every memory is a weight pressing on their shoulders, and none of them are sure how much heavier the night can get.

Then—

The sudden crackle of static in their comms.

Jill jerks so hard her gun nearly snaps up on instinct. Barry curses. Chris halts in place, eyes narrowing. Rebecca flinches like someone struck her.

The sound isn’t Brad calling in. It’s not static interference. It’s—

“—Chris? Rebecca? Anybody? Please, please pick up—”

The voice is young. Panicked. Strained like it’s been worn thin by hours of shouting into the void.

Chris feels his chest tighten. Rebecca gasps. Barry mutters, “No way,” like the world’s just tilted wrong.

“…Tim?” Rebecca whispers, hardly daring to believe it.

Chris exhales hard through his nose, pinching the earpiece tighter into his ear. “Timothy Drake. What the hell are you doing—” His voice hardens into the Captain’s scold, though underneath it there’s the quiver of fear. “You are not supposed to be here. This isn’t a game. You can’t just hack your way into—”

“I had to!” Tim’s voice cracks through, raw and trembling, and it silences Chris mid-berate. The words tumble out fast, uneven, desperate. “I’ve been trying for hours. Wesker’s line is blocked—he can’t hear this, I swear. Just—listen. Please, please listen—”

Jill’s eyes narrow at Wesker’s name. Rebecca’s pulse spikes. Barry’s jaw sets hard.

Chris grits his teeth. “Tim, do you even realize what kind of danger—”

“No! You don’t get it!” Tim interrupts again, louder, the edge of panic sharp in every word. “I saw the email. On Birkin’s laptop. It’s also forwarded to Wesker. It—it said they were going to lure you to the estate. All of you. That they want combat data against S.T.A.R.S. You’re not here by accident—you’re test subjects!”

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating.

Jill’s knuckles tighten around her pistol, the confirmation that they didn’t want stings. Rebecca’s mouth falls open, her heart hammering in her chest. Barry swears again, low and guttural, like the truth tastes like bile.

Tim’s voice rushes through the comms again before they can respond, breaking and uneven:

“They want embryos from every monster you fight. All of them. Except the Tyrant—that one they want to dispose of. And the lab—the Arklay Lab—they’re gonna destroy it. Everyone inside. All the test animals. They’re gonna cover it up, make it look like some accident.”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end, like he’s trying not to cry, and then the final blow comes out in a whisper-plea:

“You can’t trust Wesker. You just… you can’t.”

Barry’s face darkens in the flickering candlelight of the hall, his massive frame stiff as stone. Jill glances at Chris, her confirmed suspicion now blazing in her eyes like fire. Rebecca clutches her comm tighter, as if she can somehow anchor Tim’s trembling voice through sheer will.

Chris swallows hard. He feels the floor shift under him, the foundation of their mission cracking apart with every word Tim spits out. The cold betrayal chills deeper than any monster’s growl.

“Tim,” Rebecca says softly, her voice trembling. “How did you—what were you doing with Birkin’s laptop?”

The silence on the other end is long enough that Chris almost calls his name again.

When Tim finally speaks, his voice is so small, so tired, it shreds at Rebecca’s heart.

“I just… I just couldn’t look away.”

Chris presses his lips together, grief and anger warring in his chest. He should be furious with the boy—for hacking in, for risking himself, for wading into this nightmare at twelve years old. But all he hears in that voice is the child they swore to look after. The boy who slipped into their little family when no one was watching. 

Tim’s voice, faint and breaking, whispers through again.

“Please come back.”

Rebecca closes her eyes against the sting. Jill clenches her jaw. Barry looks away, because if he doesn’t, they’ll all see his grief plain as day. Chris steadies his breath and forces himself to stand tall, because someone has to.

But inside, none of them feel steady at all.

—

The deeper they move into the mansion, the worse the air gets. Mold and rot cling to the walls beneath the pristine veneer of marble and chandeliers, as though the house itself is bleeding from the inside out. Hallways twist in endless patterns, doors groan open into rooms that should feel opulent but only radiate dread. Every corner hides something: a snarl, a dragging shuffle, the stench of death.

Jill keeps a mental map as best she can, murmuring turns and intersections like a lifeline. Rebecca clings to discipline, patching wounds when she can, though the strain on her young face betrays just how overwhelming the night has become. Chris moves like a wall, steady even when he’s reeling inside. Barry lingers protectively near Jill and Rebecca, the weight of his weapon an anchor to ground them all.

It’s in one of the inner wings—past the library reeking of old parchment and blood—that they stumble across another set of journals. Dusty, handwritten, scattered like someone tried to burn them but never finished. Jill kneels, flipping through the fragile pages by candlelight.

The name leaps out first.

“Trevor.”

Her voice echoes too loudly in the suffocating stillness.

Tim’s gasp crackles over comms so sharp, so immediate, that Chris almost rips his earpiece out in shock.

“What did you just say?” Tim’s voice is tight, high-pitched with disbelief. He sounds younger than twelve in that moment, as if the years of resilience he’s forced himself to build cracked wide open.

Rebecca looks up sharply, eyes wide. “Tim?”

Chris steadies his tone, though his gut twists. “The Trevor family. Do you know them?”

Silence. Then the sound of Tim breathing too fast, trying and failing to get words out before he stumbles over himself.

“I—Sherry and I—we found files. Notes. God, it was all buried, hidden, but we pieced it together. George Trevor—he was the architect, wasn’t he? He built that mansion you’re in. But he and his family—they—they never got out. Umbrella took them. They turned them into… into experiments. Lisa—Lisa was still alive, they kept her under, they kept her in the labs, they kept using her!”

His voice breaks. The sound rattles through their comms, makes Rebecca press a hand over her mouth, makes Barry mutter a curse under his breath.

Chris closes his eyes for a beat. He already knows Umbrella’s cruelty runs deep, but hearing it spoken aloud by the boy who should’ve never carried such truths makes it cut sharper.

“They tortured a little girl for decades,” Tim says, quieter now, his voice trembling like the words themselves weigh more than he can carry. “They never let her die. She should’ve been free a long time ago. Sherry and I—we… we’ve been trying. For years. Years of digging, chasing files, pulling every scrap of evidence we could. I thought—maybe—if we got enough, someone would listen.”

Rebecca leans forward as though she could reach through the comms, her voice trembling but steady. “Tim… why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

There’s a pause. Then Tim’s voice, small and ragged, admits, “Because nobody believes kids. Not about things like this. Not about monsters. And if Umbrella found out what we were doing…” His breath hitches. “…they’d make sure we disappeared like everyone else.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s burning. Jill presses her lips together so tightly they go white. Barry stares at the floor, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s holding back something violent. Chris feels the rage coil under his ribs, hot and suffocating.

Rebecca whispers, “Tim…” and her voice cracks.

But Tim rallies himself with the kind of brittle determination only a child forced to grow too fast can muster. “Listen. If the Trevors are tied to this place, if Lisa’s still… wandering in here, then you have to document it. You have to grab everything you can. Every file, every lab note, every report. I’ll build the case from here. I’ll archive it, piece it together. Please—just don’t let their story vanish into Umbrella’s fire.”

Jill exhales sharply. “You want us to collect evidence while we’re fighting to survive?”

“Yes!” Tim’s desperation pierces through, raw and unshakable. “That’s the only way this ends. Otherwise, Umbrella wins. They burn the labs, they cover it up, and everyone who suffered just—disappears. And then they do it again somewhere else. Please. Please don’t let that happen.”

The weight of his words hangs in the room.

Barry’s fists clench, his knuckles whitening. “Kid’s right.” His voice is gravel, thick with fury. “We can’t just survive this. We’ve got to make sure someone pays.”

Rebecca nods quickly, eyes still wet. “We’ll do it, Tim. We’ll grab everything we can.”

Chris swallows down the sharpness in his throat and steadies his voice. “All right. We’ll document everything. But Tim—you stay hidden. Do you hear me? You stay safe. If you get caught—” His voice cracks despite himself. “—we can’t lose you too.”

There’s a quiet sniffle on the other end, then a whisper, “I’ll try.”

It’s all he can promise.

The team resumes their grim trek through the mansion, each journal page now more than ink and paper. Every folder, every microfilm reel, every forgotten document becomes a piece of the Trevors’ stolen lives. And in the shadows, as something massive and shambling drags its way through unseen corridors, they know Lisa herself may still be listening.

And for the first time, they don’t just feel like survivors fighting for their own lives. They feel like witnesses.

—

Barry Burton has always believed himself to be a man of conviction.

He’s been a soldier, a cop, a father, a friend—and he’s always held onto the one simple rule that’s guided every choice he’s ever made: protect the people you love.

That’s what he tells himself now, as he stands in the crumbling mansion hallway, breathing in dust and rot and regret. His hands—those hands that once steadied his daughters’ tiny shoulders, that once held the line against men twice his size—are trembling. He hides it by checking his revolver.

Click. The sound is sharp, final, unforgiving.

He tells himself it’s the humidity. The adrenaline. The damn mansion’s cursed air. But deep down, he knows better. His guilt has weight now. It sits in his chest like a brick, and every breath scrapes against it.

Jill is a few feet away, staring grimly into the flickering dark. Rebecca is sitting on a broken stair, her fingers pressed to the comm like she can still hear Tim’s voice through the static. Chris—poor, stubborn Chris—is pacing, jaw tight, fury and disbelief carving hard lines into his face.

And Barry stands apart from them all.

He’s never felt more like a traitor in his life.

The moment Tim’s voice came through, something inside Barry shattered. He didn’t expect it—no one could’ve. One second, they were united by horror and confusion, and the next, the comms had filled with the sound of a boy’s voice. That boy’s voice.

Tim Drake.

The kid with too-big eyes and too much genius for his age. The one who’d hang around the office after hours, pestering Rebecca about medical trivia and sneaking coffee despite Chris' mock sternness. The one Jill always teased, calling him junior detective, and the one Barry himself had promised to take fishing someday, “once all this paperwork nonsense dies down.”

Hearing him cry—hearing the panic, the fear—had ripped through Barry’s chest like a bullet.

He closes his eyes. The echo of it won’t leave him. You can’t trust Wesker.

The words replay over and over, striking something deep, something buried.

He remembers the call. The cold, unflinching tone on the other end of the line. 

Wesker hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t threatened with violence. No—he’d been calm, almost polite, and that made it worse.

“Barry. Your family means the world to you, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t you touch them.”

“Then you’ll do as I say.”

Moira’s laugh had echoed from the living room that day, faint but so painfully bright. Polly had been humming something from the TV. And Barry—fool, father, coward—had made his deal with the devil.

He swore he’d find a way to make it right. That if he just followed orders, pretended, waited for the right moment—he could save everyone.

But standing here, in the wreck of the mansion, with Tim’s broken voice still clinging to the static like a ghost, Barry realizes that maybe there is no “right moment.” That maybe the damage has already been done.

Rebecca’s soft sob jolts him back to the present. Chris stops pacing and crouches beside her, murmuring something low. Jill turns, arms crossed, studying him. There’s something in her stare—sharp, searching, knowing.

He can’t meet her eyes.

The silence stretches long. The air hums with something ugly, unspoken.

And Barry—finally, finally—can’t take it anymore.

He exhales, rough and shaking. “I can’t do this.”

Chris straightens, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Barry’s throat tightens. The words feel like gravel as they leave him. “I can’t keep lying to you.”

Jill’s brow furrows, cautious but alert, wary but knowing. “Barry,” she says slowly, “what are you talking about?”

He laughs—but it’s hollow, trembling. “You think I don’t know what you’re all thinking? That I’ve been acting strange? That maybe I’m hiding something?” He shakes his head. “You’re right.”

Rebecca looks up, startled. Chris stiffens.

Barry drops his gun hand to his side and stares down at it like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Wesker’s got my family,” he says finally, the words falling like bricks. “He said if I don’t follow his orders—if I don’t do what he says—he’ll kill them.”

The confession hangs in the air, raw and heavy.

Barry can’t bring himself to meet their eyes.

The silence is long—too long—thick with grief and rage and the echo of death still ringing in their ears. The flickering light from the oil lantern paints harsh shadows across the stone walls of the tunnel, illuminating every hard line in Chris' face, every tremor in Rebecca’s bloodstained hands, and the fire burning behind Jill’s eyes.

Barry stands a few steps away, back against the wall, the Colt Python hanging loose in his grip. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. For once, the man who’d always known how to comfort, how to command, how to make a tense situation human again—has no words.

He doesn’t get the chance to find any.

“You knew,” Jill says first. Her voice is low—too calm, too sharp. “You knew and you didn’t tell us.”

Barry flinches, like the words strike him physically. “Jill, I—”

“Don’t.” She steps forward, her boots echoing through the tiles, eyes burning with fury that’s been simmering since the mansion’s doors first locked behind them. “Don’t you dare start with that tone. You’ve been acting strange since the beginning. I heard you talking to Wesker, but still I gave you the benefit of the doubt that maybe you were just having a bad day, or you were just talking about something else. But the radio silence, the excuses—God, Barry, I trusted you.”

Chris' glare joins hers, his voice clipped, cold, shaking with barely restrained rage. “You put all of us at risk.”

Rebecca looks between them all, her face pale and streaked with tears. “Bravo’s practically wiped out,” she says, her voice trembling, small but cutting through the argument like a blade. “If you’d told us sooner, if you’d said something—maybe—”

Barry’s shoulders hunch. His throat works, but no sound comes. He wants to tell her she’s right. That he deserves every ounce of her grief. That he’s been drowning in guilt since Wesker first made the call.

Instead, he breathes out—slow and broken—and forces the truth into the air.

“He said he’d kill them.” His voice is hoarse, rough with pain—pleading for them to understand, “My wife. My girls.”

The words hang there, echoing in the tunnel like a confession to a god that isn’t listening.

Jill freezes mid-step. The fury on her face falters—just a flicker—but it’s enough to show the crack in her armor. Chris' brows furrow, suspicion warring with anger. Rebecca’s eyes harden, her expression collapsing from fury into heartbreak.

Barry looks at them all, the guilt thick in his throat. “I didn’t have a choice. I thought if I just… went along long enough, I could protect you all and my family. But every lie, every minute—it just made it worse.” His voice wavers, the exhaustion of sleepless nights bleeding through. “I’ve been leading my second family into a death trap, and I knew it.”

Jill’s jaw trembles, her anger folding inward. “You still lied,” she says quietly, though the sharpness in her voice has dulled to something heavier—hurt, not fury. “You could’ve told us. We would’ve found a way to protect them.”

Chris exhales hard, turning away for a moment, gripping his rifle until his knuckles go white. “Dammit, Barry.” His voice cracks around the curse. “We could’ve fought together. You should’ve trusted us.”

Rebecca looks down, her voice small, raw. “You’re supposed to be our family too.”

That sentence breaks him.

“I couldn’t!” Barry shouts back, his voice breaking. He slams a fist into the nearest wall, the sound echoing through the tunnel. “You don’t understand—he’s got them! He showed me pictures—proof! If I said a word, they’d be dead before we could move. What would you have done, huh? If it were your family?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp and agonized.

Jill’s glare falters, though her fury still burns. Chris stands rigid, jaw tight, breathing through clenched teeth. Rebecca wipes at her eyes, shaking her head as if she’s trying to make sense of a betrayal that has no reason good enough.

Then—quietly, through the comms—Tim’s voice cuts through the storm.

“Stop yelling at him.”

It’s small, barely above a whisper. But it silences them instantly.

Barry’s breath stutters. He closes his eyes.

Tim’s voice wavers with emotion but doesn’t break. “He didn’t want to do it. You all know that. Barry wouldn’t hurt anyone unless he thought it was the only way to protect his family.”

Jill exhales, long and shaky. Chris' hands curl into fists. Rebecca bites her lip, eyes glassy.

Tim goes on, softer now, but every word hits like a plea. “You all taught me that family means doing whatever it takes to keep them safe. You taught me that. So don’t blame him for trying to do the same.” There’s a pause—one long, heavy heartbeat. “He’s scared. You all are. But you’re still on the same side.”

The tunnel feels different now—quieter, but more fragile, like the entire group is holding its breath.

Barry looks up, eyes shining with tears that he can’t hide anymore. “Kid,” he rasps, his voice barely holding steady, “you shouldn’t have to be the one saying that.”

Tim’s reply is soft but sure. “Then make it so I don’t have to.”

Rebecca presses a hand over her mouth, fighting back sobs. Jill stares down at the ground, her expression breaking—anger giving way to grief. And Chris… Chris exhales, low and heavy, shoulders sagging as the last of his fury drains out.

He steps forward, placing a hand on Barry’s shoulder. “You screwed up,” he says quietly, the words firm but not cruel. “Big time. But if you’re still in this fight with us—then prove it. Help us end this.”

Barry nods once, jaw tight. “You have my word.”

Finally, Chris turns back, his expression still hard but steadier. “Alright,” he says, his tone low, the command in it tempered with weariness. “If Wesker wants to play us against each other, we’re not giving him that satisfaction.” He looks Barry dead in the eye. “But you stay with us. No more secrets. No more hesitation. You understand?”

Barry nods, the movement jerky. 

Jill crosses her arms, her jaw tight. “You’re not off the hook, Barry. When this is over—we’re going to have a long talk about trust.”

Rebecca wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, her voice soft but firm. “But… for now, we have to survive.”

Barry looks at each of them—Jill’s wounded glare, Chris' controlled fury, Rebecca’s trembling compassion—and nods again, more resolute this time. “You’re right,” he says, voice steadier. “We see this through. Together. God help me, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

The truce settles between them—not forgiveness, not yet—but something strong enough to move forward.

“And Tim’s right,” Rebecca says softly. “We can’t fall apart now. Not when everything depends on us making it out alive.”

Barry can only nod. His chest aches with guilt—but also with something faint and fragile, something almost like hope.

Chris looks up toward the tunnel ceiling, voice quiet but firm. “Tim,” he says into the comms, “you shouldn’t have had to hear any of that. I’m sorry, kid.”

For a moment, there’s only static. Then, barely audible, “…Just come back.”

The four of them shoulder their weapons, the air thick with tension and the weight of betrayal not yet healed. But beneath the anger, beneath the loss, there’s still one thing unbroken: they’re S.T.A.R.S.

But for the first time since this nightmare began, Barry feels something crack through the suffocating guilt—something like resolve.

He’s failed once.
He won’t fail again.

Not to Wesker.
Not to Umbrella.
And sure as hell not to the people he calls family.

—

The dormitory is silent after the battle with Plant 42, but the silence is not peace. It’s the kind of hush that settles over graves, heavy and suffocating, as if the building itself knows what horrors were born here.

Chris pushes open the warped door leading back into the courtyard, the vines crunching under his boots, their sap still sticky with blood. Rebecca keeps close to him, her eyes wide and haunted. Barry lingers behind, magnum lowered, but his shoulders are tight with unspoken tension. Jill brings up the rear, her gaze flicking over every shadow as though expecting the vines to twitch again.

No one speaks.

It isn’t until they enter the damp tunnels beneath the courtyard that Rebecca dares to whisper, “How many people… lived here? How many staff, how many researchers? And now they’re just—” She gestures vaguely, remembering the drained bodies hanging in vines. “Food.”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his weapon raised, scanning the darkness, but his jaw is tight. “Umbrella didn’t care. To them, those people weren’t people. Just—” His voice falters, hardens. “Specimens.”

Barry lets out a humorless laugh, though it’s more like a sigh forced through his teeth. “Yeah. Specimens. Monsters.” He doesn’t say whether he means the B.O.W.s or the men in suits who dreamed them up.

They keep moving, the tunnel floor slick beneath their boots, until the space opens up into the massive underground tank chamber. The smell hits them first—stale water, old metal, the faint copper tang of blood. Three enormous shadows drift in the water, pale forms gliding silently just below the surface.

Rebecca’s breath catches. “Oh my god.”

Mutant sharks, grotesque parodies of nature. Their bodies ripple with bulges of muscle and sickly tumors, their mouths lined with rows of jagged teeth that snap reflexively as they pass near the glass.

Jill grips her pistol tighter, though firing into the tank would be suicide. “What was Umbrella doing with these?”

“Testing,” Chris answers grimly. “Always testing.”

They skirt around the chamber, careful to stay away from the cracked edge where the water laps against broken concrete. The sharks follow them, sleek shadows circling, waiting.

It takes another five minutes of tense silence before they find him.

Enrico Marini. Bravo’s captain.

He’s slumped against the tunnel wall, one hand pressed weakly against a wound in his abdomen. His uniform is torn, blood soaking into the damp earth beneath him. When he lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, but recognition flickers through the haze.

“Chris…” His voice is ragged, but strong enough. “Rebecca… you’re alive.”

Rebecca drops to her knees beside him, fumbling for her medkit. “Don’t move, Captain, I can stabilize you—”

But Enrico shakes his head sharply, the gesture pulling a fresh spasm of pain from his lips. His hand trembles as it grips Chris' arm. “No… listen. You have to… listen.”

Chris leans in, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape his chest. “We’re here, Enrico. Tell us.”

Enrico’s breath rattles. His face is pale, slick with sweat, his fingers trembling as he grips the wound blooming red beneath his vest. “There’s…” He coughs, his body jerking with the effort. “There’s a traitor… inside S.T.A.R.S.”

The words hit harder than any gunshot.

But there’s no shock—no disbelief, no denial. Just silence. Thick, stifling, and heavy with the weight of confirmation. Jill’s jaw clenches so tight it trembles. Rebecca’s eyes brim with tears. Barry looks down at the floor, guilt carving itself into the lines of his face.

Because they already know.

Tim’s broken voice over the comm, Jill’s discovery of Wesker’s photograph, the pieces that had refused to fit until now—all of it comes together in a cruel, jagged truth.

Rebecca lowers her hands from her medkit, blood still slick on her gloves. Her voice cracks as she speaks. “We already know, Captain.” She forces the words out, trembling, raw. “It’s Wesker. He’s the traitor.”

Enrico’s eyes widen faintly, surprise flickering before fading into a kind of fragile peace. His lips twitch—almost a smile, almost relief. “Good…” he breathes. “You know. Don’t let him… don’t let Umbrella win.”

Chris grips Enrico’s shoulder, as if he can anchor him here, hold him to life through sheer will. “We won’t,” he says, his voice a vow sharpened by grief. “I promise you, Enrico. We’ll finish this.”

But the mansion doesn’t grant promises.

The rifle cracks like thunder.

Enrico’s body jolts—once, twice—and the sound of the shot echoes endlessly in the narrow tunnel. Blood blossoms across his chest like a spreading storm.

“NO!” Rebecca screams, her voice tearing from her throat as she catches him. “No, no, no, please—Enrico—!” Her shaking hands press against the wound, futile, desperate. The warmth of his blood slicks through her fingers. She sobs, choking on disbelief, her body curling over his as if she can shield him from death itself.

Chris whirls around, weapon raised, fury blazing white-hot behind his eyes. Jill’s already sprinting toward the sound, boots splashing through shallow water. Barry raises his Magnum, scanning every shadow, every corner.

A flicker—movement. A silhouette. A muzzle flash. Then nothing. The assassin slips away like smoke. Chris fires, the bullet sparking uselessly off stone.

Jill returns, her expression carved from anger and exhaustion. “They’re gone,” she spits. “Whoever it was—they knew the tunnels.”

Chris kneels beside Rebecca, his gloved hand steady on her shoulder. His face is set, but the grief in his voice is unmistakable. “He’s gone, Rebecca.”

Rebecca’s sobbing quiets into trembling silence. Her eyes are wide and hollow, fixed on the lifeless face of the man who just moments ago had been fighting to warn them. “He didn’t deserve this,” she whispers, voice breaking. “He didn’t deserve to die like this.”

Barry stands apart, his massive frame still, his shoulders trembling faintly. The scene before him cuts deep—too deep. Rebecca’s shaking hands. The blood. The plea for someone who can’t answer. It drags him back to the faces of his daughters, the promises he made to them, and the betrayal he’s become a part of.

Jill kneels opposite Chris, her eyes glinting with restrained fury. “Wesker did this,” she mutters, voice shaking with hate. “He sent that killer. He’s watching every move we make.”

The comms crackle.

“I heard.”

Tim’s voice is small—frighteningly small. It’s not the confident tone of the boy who hacks Umbrella servers for fun. It’s a child’s voice. Shaken. Haunted. “I… I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Rebecca presses a bloody hand over her mouth, eyes shutting tight as another tear slips free. Barry’s jaw locks as his chest heaves, the guilt threatening to crush him. Jill’s hand curls into a fist, nails biting into her palm.

Chris stares at Enrico’s body for a long time before looking up—toward the ceiling, toward the radio, toward the voice of the boy who should never have heard any of this.

His voice is steady, but thick with grief and rage when he speaks.

“…You shouldn’t have had to hear that, Tim.”

There’s a pause—Tim doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s crying on the other end.

Chris lowers his head, voice rough. “But we’ll make it right. I promise you. We’ll make it right.”

The water drips in the tunnels. Rebecca’s shoulders shake with silent sobs. Barry can’t bring himself to holster his gun. Jill stands, her eyes shadowed, her expression carved from fury and heartbreak.

—

The steel doors groan open, and the air that seeps out of the hidden laboratory is colder than the mansion’s halls above. Sterile, chemical, artificial. A place built for science but drenched in death.

Chris steps in first, his weapon raised, the beam of his flashlight slicing across rows of overturned desks and shattered glass vials. Jill follows at his shoulder, her pistol steady but her eyes darting to every corner. Rebecca lingers at the threshold, swallowing hard. The scent of ethanol and decay clashes, tugging her back to sterile classrooms and lecture halls—but twisted into a nightmare. Barry enters last, the weight of his gun heavy in his hand and heavier in his heart.

It’s not the ruined equipment that makes them stop. It’s the filing cabinets. Row after row of them, shoved against the walls, drawers left open in panic, documents scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a paper storm.

Rebecca is the first to kneel. Her hands hover over a spread of notes, scrawled with equations, chemical formulas, and dates. She picks one up, her brow furrowing. “This… this isn’t just medical research.” Her voice trembles, more anger than fear. “This is weapons development.”

Chris takes the paper from her, his jaw tightening as he reads aloud. “‘Application of Epsilon strain. Subject viability for combat environments… minimal civilian awareness. Potential distribution through aerosol release.’”

He doesn’t finish. The words curdle in his mouth.

Jill steps past them, pulling open one of the cabinets. More files, thick manila folders stamped with red urgent tags and government seals. She flips one open—and freezes.

“Chris…” she whispers, holding it out.

He takes it, scanning. A logo blazes at the top—United States Department of Defense. Below it, dense paragraphs. The words blur for a moment before his eyes sharpen on the line that matters: ‘Cooperative program with Umbrella Pharmaceuticals: viral weapons research, in violation of international conventions.’

Chris feels the world tilt. He forces the words out, low, as if saying them makes them heavier. “This wasn’t just Umbrella. The U.S. military was in on it.”

Rebecca’s stomach turns. “That means… this was sanctioned? Our government—our own government knew about this?”

Barry’s face hardens, the lines of guilt already etched deep digging further. “We were just pawns. All of us.”

There’s a static crackle in their ears. Then Tim’s voice—small, tired, but cutting through the silence. “…I knew it.”

Everyone stills.

“I—Sherry and I—we found hints, in her dad’s files. Memos. Signatures. We didn’t want to believe it but—” His voice breaks, thin and raw, and for a moment he sounds every bit the kid he is. “It’s all connected. Umbrella, the Army, the government—they don’t care about people. Not about you. Not about me. Just results.”

Rebecca closes her eyes, her chest aching. She wants to shield him from this, but the truth has already burned him.

Jill sets her jaw and moves deeper into the room. “We need to see everything. Every damn file they left behind.”

Together they spread out, rifling through drawers, scanning papers. Rebecca’s hands shake as she uncovers test results, each page a litany of suffering. Subject 045—female, 24. Rapid necrosis observed after injection. Terminated. Subject 102—child, 8. Failed compatibility. Terminated.

Her throat locks. “They used children,” she whispers.

Chris' grip on his pistol tightens until his knuckles turn white.

Then Jill finds it. A folder thicker than the rest, sealed with Umbrella’s insignia. She pulls it free and slaps it onto the table. When she opens it, the photographs spill out—grainy shots of the mansion under construction, notes from Oswell Spencer himself, and lab rosters.

Rebecca picks up one of the rosters—and freezes.

“Chris…”

He leans over her shoulder. His eyes narrow as he scans the list. And then his blood runs cold.

Wesker, Albert. Researcher, Umbrella USA Division. Specialization: virology, bio-organic weapons development. Current assignment: data retrieval.

“Goddamn it,” Chris growls, slamming a fist against the desk. The metal rattles, but it’s nothing compared to the fury burning in his chest. 

Barry looks away, shame etched deep into every line of his face. Jill’s eyes are sharp, filled with betrayal and the sting of something almost personal.

On the comms, Tim whispers again, hollow. “…That’s what the emails said. Wesker wasn’t just working for Umbrella. He was running the experiment. You were… the experiment.”

The silence that follows is crushing.

Chris finally speaks, his voice rough but steady, the soldier reining in his grief. “Then we end it. We burn this place, we take these files, and we drag Umbrella’s name through the mud. They don’t get to bury this.”

Rebecca nods, fierce determination flashing through her tears. Jill grips her pistol like an oath. Barry swallows hard, still haunted but finally lifting his gun with grim resolve.

The papers rustle in the stale lab air, a graveyard of words exposing the rot of power and ambition. The truth is in their hands now. But so is the danger, because the man who betrayed them knows exactly what they’ve found.

And Wesker isn’t done yet.

—

Tim’s fingers tremble over the keyboard, sweat dripping down his temple, but he doesn’t dare stop. His pulse hammers in his ears, faster than his typing, faster than his breathing. Every frequency he cycles through is static, broken voices, or nothing at all. He’s sitting alone in Chris' apartment with two laptops open—William Birkin’s fortress of secrets on one side, his own laptop on the other.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he mutters, biting his lip so hard it stings. “Please work. Please—”

Then—

A burst of noise. And through it—Brad’s panicked voice.

Tim nearly falls out of his chair as he slams his headset tighter against his ear. “Brad! Brad, it’s me, Tim! You need to listen to me right now!”

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “What—? Tim? How the hell—kid, you shouldn’t be—”

“Forget that!” Tim cuts him off, voice cracking with urgency. “You left them! You left Chris, Jill, Rebecca, Barry—they’re still in there, Brad! They’re still alive!”

Static buzzes for a long, terrible second.

“Kid,” Brad’s voice finally comes, low and heavy. “You don’t get it. Those things—they’re monsters. I saw Joseph… I saw what those dogs did to him. I panicked. I—” His voice shakes. “I couldn’t stay. If I go back—”

“Then you’ll save them!” Tim snaps, his voice so high and raw it almost breaks. He stands, pacing the room like he can’t contain the fear boiling in his chest. “Do you hear yourself? You’re the pilot! You’re the only one who can get them out of there alive! If you don’t turn that chopper around, they’re dead, Brad. They’ll all die.”

“Tim…”

“They’re your team!” Tim’s voice rises, desperate and thin. “Chris trusts you. Jill trusts you. Rebecca—she’s just a kid like me, Brad! She’s out there alone without backup! You can’t just leave them, not after everything they’ve been through. Not after everything they’ve done for this city!”

Brad doesn’t answer. All Tim hears is the hum of the helicopter blades over the comms, steady, retreating.

Tim’s throat closes, but he pushes harder, words tumbling out in a rush. “If you don’t go back… what do I tell them? When they find out you abandoned them, what do I say? That Brad was too scared? That Brad didn’t care enough? You think I can look Chris in the eye and tell him that?”

Brad swears under his breath, a ragged sound. “Kid, don’t—don’t put that on me. I can’t…” His voice trails off.

Tim slams his palm against the desk. “You can. You’re scared? Fine. I’m scared too, Brad! I’m twelve years old and I’m sitting here hacking into comms because I can’t do anything else, because if I don’t, the people I care about are going to die. So don’t tell me you can’t, because if I were you, I’d already be flying back!”

Silence stretches.

Tim’s breath hitches, chest tight with panic and tears he can’t afford to cry. His voice drops, soft and broken. “Please, Brad. Don’t make me hear them die. Don’t make me be the one who has to tell their families you didn’t even try.”

The line is quiet except for the chop of rotor blades and Brad’s uneven breathing. Then, finally—

“…Kid. You’re right.” Brad’s voice is hoarse, strained like it hurts to say the words. “God help me, you’re right. I’ll go back.”

Tim nearly collapses into his chair, his whole body trembling with relief. His voice is a whisper now, all the fight drained out of him. “Thank you. Please… just get them home.”

“I’ll try.” Brad exhales hard. “For them. For you.”

The comms cut, and Tim slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. His heart won’t stop pounding, but for the first time all night, hope stirs in his chest.

—

The air in the underground lab feels colder than before—too still, too sterile, as if even the oxygen is holding its breath. Metal walls glint under the fluorescent lights, their reflection catching on the slick, dark stains that trail along the floor. Jill can feel the weight of everything—the betrayal, the fear, the exhaustion—pressing into her bones.

And there he is.

Captain Albert Wesker.

Wesker stands before her, immaculate even here. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but his smirk is the same—sharp, knowing, cruel. He doesn’t need to shout to command the room. His calmness is more terrifying than any monster lurking in the mansion above.

Jill raises her weapon, the barrel unwavering. “Wesker?” Her voice is low, deliberate.

He only tilts his head slightly, as though amused by her restraint. “You did a fine job, Barry,” he says, ignoring her entirely.

The words hang like a noose.

Barry’s jaw tightens, his shoulders hunching under the invisible weight of those words. Chris stiffens beside Jill, and Rebecca instinctively steps closer to him, her grip tightening on the small medkit at her side. Jill’s eyes narrow, cold fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“Just as I thought…” she mutters, not lowering her gun.

Wesker’s smirk widens. “I think you should stay away from Barry, Jill.” His tone drips with venomous satisfaction. “I hear that his wife and two daughters will be in danger if he doesn’t do everything I tell him to.”

Barry flinches visibly. The words hit him like bullets. His voice shakes when he finally answers, but the sound that comes out of him is something between a growl and a broken oath. “You lay a hand on them, Wesker, and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Wesker interrupts, almost lazily. “Barry Burton, the perfect soldier. The loyal dog. You bark when I order, and you stay quiet when I say so.”

Chris exhales a curse under his breath. “You’ve got some nerve,” he growls. “You think you can just stand there and—”

Jill cuts him off, taking a step forward. “Don’t even start with that smug act, Wesker. We know what you’ve done.”

Wesker tilts his head, a faint, predatory smile curling his lips. “Do you now?” He glances at Barry as if observing a particularly amusing specimen. 

“Shut up,” Barry snarls, stepping between Wesker and Jill.

Wesker’s expression doesn’t falter. “You’re a good man, Barry. A family man. That’s why I chose you. You’ll do anything for your family—lie, deceive, betray—”

“Enough!” Chris snaps, taking a step forward. His hands tremble, not from fear but pure, boiling anger. “You manipulated him. You threatened his family just to get your way!”

Rebecca’s voice joins his, cracking with emotion. “You could’ve killed us all! You—” she swallows hard, voice breaking, “you were supposed to be our leader.”

“Leader,” Wesker repeats, the word rolling off his tongue with cruel amusement. “I lead. You follow. And look where it’s brought you—all of you, cornered, exhausted, broken.”

“Enough!” Chris shouts, stepping forward. His voice reverberates through the chamber. “You’ve lied to us, used us, killed our people—and you think you can stand there and act like this is just business?”

Barry takes one step forward, muscles tense, gun raised—but his voice is hoarse when he speaks. “You son of a bitch…”

Jill cuts in, cold and precise, words slicing sharper than her sidearm. “Why, Wesker? Why destroy S.T.A.R.S.? What did we ever do to you?”

“That’s Umbrella’s intention,” Wesker replies smoothly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “This laboratory has been engaging in dangerous experiments, and recently—well—an accident has occurred. The kind of accident that can’t be made public.” His smile widens. “Having S.T.A.R.S. poking around… how do you say it? Inconvenient.”

“‘Inconvenient,’” Chris echoes, trembling with fury. “You’re a slave to Umbrella, just like the rest of these monsters.”

“Slave?” Wesker laughs softly. “No, no, no. You misunderstand me. The monsters mean nothing to me. I’ll burn them—burn everything—when I’m done. I must simply complete my mission.”

Barry exhales, shaking his head. His voice rises—deep, booming with righteous anger. “Mission?! You call this a mission?! You threatened my family! You made me lie to my friends! You turned this into hell, Wesker!”

“And yet you obeyed,” Wesker says, his smirk cruel. “Because I knew what would break you. Because even the strongest men fold when love is the noose around their neck.”

Rebecca steps closer to Barry, her trembling hand brushing his sleeve. “He’s not your puppet anymore,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “He chose us. That means something.”

Barry’s throat tightens. He doesn’t look at her—but the muscle in his jaw jumps.

For the first time, Wesker’s expression falters. His head tilts, as if sniffing the air for weakness. “You know what I find interesting?" he murmurs. “You’ve all been uncharacteristically quiet on the comm frequency. No reports. No requests. No panic.” He looks up, his grin returning—sharp, knowing.

“I knew something was fishy. You must have a little helper.”

All four freeze.

Jill’s pulse spikes. Chris takes a small, defensive step forward, putting himself between Wesker and the far wall—as though he could shield Tim through the airwaves themselves. Rebecca’s hand jerks to her ear instinctively, covering the earpiece like a mother protecting a child. Barry’s entire body stiffens.

Wesker’s grin widens at their silence. “Ah,” he says softly, as if savoring the taste of their fear. “So I’m right. How charming. Tell me, is our junior hacker still listening?”

Chris' voice drops, low and dangerous. “You leave him out of this.”

“Touch him,” Jill says, tone flat and lethal, “and I swear to God, Wesker, you’ll wish you were locked in here with your monsters.”

Barry adds, growling, “He’s just a kid.”

“Children are tools,” Wesker says, shrugging. “Useful ones, when properly trained. But don’t worry—I don’t need him alive.” He pauses, as if contemplating, “Ah, well, maybe I can find a use for him yet. After all, you all call him a little genius, yes?”

Tim’s voice cuts back in—quieter, shaken. “He’s bluffing,” he says, though his voice trembles just slightly. “Don’t let him get in your heads. I’ve got your backs.”

Wesker chuckles, adjusting his glasses. The red reflection of the emergency lights glints across his lenses, obscuring his eyes. “Such loyalty. It’s touching, really. You should have shown Enrico that same devotion.”

Jill’s breath stutters. “Enrico?”

Rebecca’s eyes go wide, realization twisting into fury.

Wesker’s voice turns low and cruel. “He was becoming… inconvenient. He discovered too much. I couldn’t allow him to deliver the truth. So I handled it personally.”

Chris' eyes burn with hatred. “You were the one who killed him.”

“And you, Rebecca,” Wesker continues, turning toward her. “You would’ve reached that serum in time if not for a little… interference. I couldn’t have you saving your dear Richard, now could I?”

Rebecca’s hands shake. The gun nearly slips from her grasp. Jill reaches out and steadies her arm before she can lose it entirely.

“You bastard,” Barry spits, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve crossed every damn line there is.”

“On the contrary,” Wesker replies coldly, “I’m merely drawing new ones.”

The silence stretches again, suffocating and electric. In their ears, Tim’s voice breaks through once more—small but unshakable.

“Don’t listen to him,” Tim says, desperate. “He’s trying to make you doubt yourselves. You’re still S.T.A.R.S. You’ve already beaten worse than this.”

Barry exhales a slow, shaky breath. Jill and Chris exchange a brief look—an unspoken pact rekindled in the heart of chaos. Rebecca wipes at her eyes and lifts her gun again, determination burning through the grief.

Rebecca glowers, “You’re sick.”

Wesker glances over the four of them—their grief, their fury, their shaking bodies still standing despite the blood and the loss. “Sick? No. Visionary. Tell me—if you succeeded in developing the world’s most powerful biological weapon, what would you do? What if you were in charge?”

Chris glares at him, voice burning with raw hatred. “You don’t want to change the world. You just want to own it.”

Rebecca wipes at her eyes with the back of her glove, trembling but unbroken. “You’re no scientist,” she says. “You’re just another killer.”

Barry lifts his gun again, his voice shaking but firm. “We’re not letting you take another damn thing.”

And Jill, calm and furious all at once, lowers her aim—deliberate, composed—and says, “You’re done, Wesker. No more running. No more lies.”

For a moment, everything stops. The lab hums, machines whispering to each other in sterile tones. The air between them is thick enough to choke on—grief, anger, betrayal, and something almost holy in its defiance.

Then Wesker smiles again—cold, empty, inhuman. “You’re brave,” he says softly, almost cooing. There’s a humming in the air that they couldn’t quite place. “But so, so naive.”

The hum deepens.

It reverberates through the reinforced metal flooring and into their bones, like the steady pulse of something ancient waking from a long, patient sleep. Red emergency lights flash against the curved glass of the containment tube in rhythmic intervals. And within it, suspended in the amber hue of preservation fluid, it waits.

The creature’s skin is a sickly gray, threaded with crimson veins that writhe faintly beneath the surface. Its face is human only in the vaguest sense—smooth where it shouldn’t be, stretched taut over an impossible anatomy. Where a ribcage should rise and fall, a grotesque heart beats outside its chest, visible, pulsing, obscene in its strength.

Rebecca’s breath hitches. “Oh my God,” she whispers, voice breaking the hush.

Jill doesn’t answer. She can’t.

Wesker stands before the control console, posture crisp and reverent. His eyes gleam like a worshiper before a god.

“The Tyrant Virus,” he begins, his tone that same unbearable calm, the calm of a man who believes himself untouchable. “A super virus that creates a life form much stronger than human beings. The Tyrant,” he says with quiet triumph, “is the most powerful biological weapon in the world.”

Chris' knuckles whiten around his shotgun. “You’ve lost it,” he mutters. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

Jill’s voice trembles with fury. “You don’t mean you’ve been experimenting on people, do you?”

Wesker turns to her—slowly, deliberately—and smiles. “This is really beautiful,” he says, gesturing toward the monstrous form encased in the glass. “All this power will be mine.”

Rebecca’s voice cracks, anger finally breaking through her horror. “For the sake of that thing? You killed for this?!”

Barry growls low, his entire body coiled with restrained rage. “You’re talking about power while standing over the graves of your team,” he snaps. “You disgust me.”

But Wesker only shrugs, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Don’t be upset,” he replies with chilling indifference. “All weak people exist to be eaten.”

Tim’s voice floods through their comms then—steady, low, but shaking just enough to betray emotion. “He’s gone,” the boy says softly. “He doesn’t even see you as people anymore.”

Barry’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking under his beard. “Kid, mute your audio for this,” he mutters.

“No,” Tim says immediately. “You need me. I’m not leaving you alone with that monster.”

From his end, Tim’s fingers fly over a keyboard. Somewhere, in a quiet control booth hidden deep within the surveillance network, he manages to hack into the feed. Static flickers in front of him—and suddenly, the live footage from the lab fills his screen. He can see them now: Jill standing defiantly in front of the tank, Chris and Barry flanking her like sentinels, Rebecca trembling but unbroken. And Wesker—cold, proud, walking toward the console with the arrogance of a man who believes he commands the world.

“Guys,” Tim breathes, “he’s unlocking it.”

A hiss echoes through the chamber as Wesker’s fingers dance across the control panel. The containment tube shudders. Steam billows out in heavy clouds. The liquid drains in great heaving gurgles, and then—silence.

A twitch.

The creature’s hand curls once. Then again.

Its fingers drag against the inner glass with a sound like knives scraping steel.

“Jill—” Tim starts, but the warning dies on his lips.

Crack.

A long, jagged fracture splits the tank.

Rebecca flinches back, eyes wide. “Oh God—”

The second strike follows. Glass splinters outward in a deadly rain. The tube explodes open, shards clattering across the floor. Steam bursts outward, blinding them for a heartbeat before clearing—and there it stands.

The Tyrant.

Nearly three meters tall, its frame is the perfect nightmare of biology and cruelty—a thing made for killing. Its right arm ends in an enormous, sharpened claw, glistening wet and glinting under the red light. That obscene heart still beats, thrumming through the room like a war drum.

It turns its head toward Jill first. Then—slowly—to Wesker.

Wesker’s composure cracks for the first time. “Magnificent,” he whispers, though the word trembles now. “Truly magnificent…”

The Tyrant takes a step forward. Another. Each footfall is heavy enough to make the steel groan.

“Wesker, back off!” Chris barks, raising his weapon.

Wesker laughs—a short, sharp sound of madness. “You don’t command me anymore!” he shouts, spreading his arms toward the creature like a prophet before his god. “Come, Tyrant! Witness your creator!”

Tim’s voice, low and terrified, fills their ears, “Chris—move him, now!”

But it’s already too late.

The Tyrant’s arm shoots out, faster than human eyes can track. The massive claw plunges through Wesker’s chest with a wet, slicing sound that echoes through the lab. The look on Wesker’s face isn’t even pain—it’s shock.

“No—!” Jill gasps.

Barry grabs her shoulder, pulling her back as blood sprays across the control console.

Wesker’s fingers twitch toward the panel, but he never reaches it. The Tyrant lifts him like a doll impaled on a spear, then flings him aside. His body hits the floor with a dull, final thud. The Master Key slips from his coat pocket, spinning once before clattering across the metal flooring.

For a moment, no one breathes.

The Tyrant lowers its head, turning its dead gray eyes toward the living. Its chest heaves once, its exposed heart pounding like a war drum.

“Jill,” Tim says quietly through the comms. “You’re clear. You have to move—now.”

But Jill doesn’t move. Her hands tighten around her gun as she whispers, “It can’t control what it does…”

The words are soft, almost pitying. Then her stance changes. Her blue eyes harden into steel.

Chris chambers a round. Barry raises his magnum. Rebecca steadies her trembling aim.

“Together,” Jill says.

Tim’s voice cracks with urgency. “Then don’t miss.”

It’s time for Tim to do what he does best—mission control.

And the Tyrant roars.

It lunges forward.

The fight begins.

The roar shakes the entire laboratory. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the realm of the living—a guttural, echoing bellow that vibrates through the walls and rattles the lights overhead. The heat of the steam and the sharp scent of chemicals cling to the air, turning every breath into something metallic and heavy.

The Tyrant surges forward in a blur of monstrous muscle and fury. Its massive claw slams into the ground where Jill had stood only a heartbeat ago, shattering the reinforced steel like glass. She rolls away, the wind of the impact whipping her hair back.

“Move!” Chris shouts, diving to one side as the beast swings again.

Tim’s voice bursts through their comms, tight and focused despite the tremor beneath it. “He’s locking onto movement! Don’t stay still for more than two seconds—it’s tracking you visually!” His eyes dart between screens, hands flying across his keyboard as he toggles between hacked camera feeds.

Rebecca ducks behind a support beam, heart hammering in her chest. “There has to be a weak point!” she shouts, scanning the monstrous figure with her weapon trembling in her hands.

“There is,” Jill growls, eyes flicking to the pulsing organ on its chest. “That heart—aim for it!”

Chris fires first, the shotgun blast echoing through the lab. The buckshot tears into the Tyrant’s side, staggering it slightly but doing little more than anger it. Barry follows up with a deafening shot from the magnum, the recoil jolting his shoulder as the round slams into the creature’s exposed chest. The Tyrant roars, stumbling backward a few steps, before its glowing eyes snap toward Barry.

“Barry, move!” Tim yells.

The older man barely dives aside before the claw sweeps through the space he occupied, the air cracking with the force of the strike. The claw embeds itself into the wall, metal shrieking as it tears through.

Rebecca peeks out from behind the support beam and fires three rounds, her breath ragged. One hits. The heart twitches violently, spurting dark blood. The Tyrant turns its head sharply in her direction, letting out a deep, animalistic hiss.

“Rebecca!” Jill yells. She sprints forward, placing herself between the creature and the young medic. “Over here, you son of a bitch!”

The Tyrant responds immediately — a predator recognizing the most defiant prey. It swings again, and Jill rolls under its arm, firing point-blank into its chest. The gunfire flashes bright, each round embedding deep into that unnatural flesh.

Tim’s voice cracks through again, urgent but proud. “That’s it, Jill! You’re hurting it! Keep pushing—”

The monster’s claw suddenly sweeps low, knocking Jill off her feet. She hits the ground hard, her pistol sliding out of reach.

“Jill!” Chris shouts, sprinting toward her, rage flaring in his chest. He raises his shotgun and empties it in three quick shots, smoke curling from the barrel as the Tyrant’s massive body jerks from the impacts.

It isn’t enough.

The Tyrant turns on him, lifting its claw for a killing blow—

—and then Barry steps between them, Cold Python raised. “Over my dead body.”

The shot pierces through the Tyrant’s arm just as it comes down. Flesh and sinew explode in a spray of dark blood. The creature staggers, screeching in rage and pain.

Chris seizes the moment. He grabs Jill’s arm, hauling her to her feet. “You good?”

“Still breathing,” she huffs, eyes blazing. “Let’s end this.”

Tim’s voice cuts through again, shaking but sharp. “Wait—wait, its vitals are spiking! It’s about to go berserk!”

Even before the words finish, the Tyrant screams. The sound is animal, human, and mechanical all at once — the noise of a weapon tearing itself apart. The veins across its body bulge, glowing faintly. It lunges faster now, movements erratic and vicious.

Rebecca scrambles backward, nearly tripping as the ground quakes beneath her. “It’s not stopping—!”