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Chapter Text

The giant monitors hum softly in the low light of the cave, casting cold blue across the polished floor like a frozen spotlight. Tim’s seated at the far end of the table, hunched in his chair like a sleep deprived corpse. He feels like a dishrag that’s been rung out and left to dry over a keyboard and for once he wants sleep more than answers.

Everyone’s already here.

Dick perches on the upper railing with the effortless balance of someone who grew up in the air, one leg casually swinging, posture loose but alert. Jason leans against the table, arms crossed, jaw set, giving off a very clear I was dragged here and I hate it energy. Damian sits perfectly straight in his chair, hands folded in his lap, looking like discipline carved into a person. Duke is spinning himself slowly in one of the chairs, sneakers squeaking every time he twists back the other way. Stephanie stands beside him, chewing on a granola bar, and Cassandra is near the back, still and quiet, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Then Bruce speaks. “We have a trafficking ring operating in Westbridge Institute.”

Just like that, the room snaps to attention. All motion stills. 

Duke halts mid-spin, one foot dragging lightly against the floor. Dick’s leg stills. Jason uncrosses his arms just enough to look up. Stephanie freezes with her granola bar halfway to her mouth. Damian’s posture somehow gets even straighter. Cassandra’s gaze lifts to the screen. And Tim, despite the stiffness in his spine protesting like fire, forces himself upright.

The screen flicks to an aerial image of a school, ornate stone buildings, long courtyards, tall fences with padlocks. It looks more like a well funded prison rather than a school.

Bruce continues, his tone flat but edged with something grim. “They’re targeting vulnerable students. Girls with unstable home lives. Neglected. Forgotten.” He clicks again, bringing up a timeline of disappearance dates, each one a red mark that feels like a bruise. “They watch them, track their routines, their weak points. They confirm no one will notice until it’s too late. Then the victims disappear out of state under the label of ‘mentorship programs’ that don’t exist. The paperwork is fully falsified, transfers routed through shell organizations to bury any trail.”

Tim feels his stomach sink, slow and sickening, a cold slide that settles somewhere low in his gut. He knows this pattern. Knows the fear, the confusion, the way the world tilts when adults decide you’re expendable. The girls must be terrified. Alone. Trapped.

His throat feels tight.

Another click.

The screen shifts to a grainy still image, a man in his forties standing beside a dumpster, handing something small to someone half-hidden behind a cargo truck.

“This is Levi Everett, history teacher at Westbridge. Last week, he was observed transferring a drive to an associate of the Ruiz cartel. According to our source, it contains names, schedules, and vulnerability assessments of potential victims.”

Jason exhales sharply through his nose, “So what, you want us to go shake him down? Grab the drive?”

Bruce doesn’t even blink. “Not directly. He carries the original during school hours in his bag. If we tip him off, he’ll disappear and take the entire operation with him.”

“So a stealth op,” Dick says, leaning forward with that bright, easy confidence that makes everything sound manageable. “Got it. Who’s going in?”

Bruce doesn’t answer verbally. He simply taps a command and the holo-table lights up with a class roster, names, headshots, and uniform portraits.  Another click and a forged email chain opens beside it. Fake transcripts, transfer approvals, a carefully curated digital paper trail. Each document is the kind of thorough that means Bruce has been planning this for days.

“Westbridge is an all-female institution.”

A beat of silence.

Tim’s eye twitches. “…Okay,” he says slowly, carefully. “So, Steph? Or Cass?”

“Not possible.” Bruce says flatly.

Stephanie swallows her bite. “I was recognized near there two weeks ago, remember? That last bust.”

Cassandra nods once. “I’m compromised too.”

Dick frowns. “That leaves…”

“One of us,” Tim finishes flatly, dread sinking like a stone.

The room goes quiet, the boys exchanging wary glances like they’re silently playing an intense game of Not It.

Jason is the first to break. He lifts both hands, eyebrows raised. “Don’t look at me. I’m tattooed, I’ve been arrested, and unless that school’s running an extremely inclusive admissions policy, it’s not happening.”

Stephanie snorts. “Also, you walk like a brick in heels.”

“Thanks, Blondie.”

“Anytime.”

Dick shifts in his seat, shoulders squaring like he’s actually considering it. He lifts a tentative hand. “I mean, technically, I could maybe—”

“You’re six feet tall and built like a quarterback.” Tim cuts in, deadpan. “What, you gonna slouch into a junior class photo?”

Dick gives a helpless shrug. “I could try.”

Tim stares at him, flat and unimpressed. “You’re six foot.”

“Okay, fair,” Dick mutters, sitting back.

Duke raises a hand. “Okay, but seriously, do we have to send a girl? Couldn’t we fake a male staff member or something? Like a TA?”

Bruce shakes his head before he even finishes. “The school doesn’t hire male faculty under twenty-five. Strict policy. And they don’t accept male students at all. It has to be a girl.”

Another heavy pause.

Damian lifts his chin. “It will not be me.”

“God, no,” Dick says immediately. “You’re thirteen, Damian.”

Jason snorts, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “What about B? I’d pay good money to see Bruce in a wig.”

Bruce doesn’t even bother looking up from the console. “No.”

“Coward.”

Then, slowly, all eyes swivel to Tim.

He blinks. “No.”

Stephanie’s eyes are already lighting up like she just unwrapped a brand-new grappling hook for Christmas. “Come on. You’re the perfect height.”

“Soft features.” Cassandra adds calmly.

“You already look like a haunted Victorian orphan,” Duke adds, grinning like he’s helping.

Tim turns toward him, incredulous. “That’s not even a compliment.”

“Sure it is,” Dick says cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. “You blend in like a pro. Quiet, observant, weird in social settings. Total high school girl material.”

Tim stares at him, jaw tight. “Wow. Thanks.”

Bruce nods. “It makes the most sense. You haven’t been made, you’re the right age, and your face isn’t known in that circle. We’ll fabricate a profile and ID. You’ll go during lunch, find Everett’s bag, get the drive, and extract quietly.”

Tim just stares at him. “You want me to go undercover… as a girl?”

Stephanie claps her hands, grinning ear to ear. “Best day of my life.”

Bruce continues on like this is a perfectly reasonable Tuesday. “Cass and Steph will handle your cover identity. Dick will be the distraction. Jason is back up and evac. Barbara will run surveillance. Damian and Duke stay in the cave on comms.”

Jason perks up, smirk spreading like a bad idea taking root. “Can I pick the outfit?”

“Absolutely not.” Tim snaps.

Stephanie is already swiping across her tablet like she’s designing a superhero suit. “You’ll be Morgan Clarke.” she announces with terrifying enthusiasm. “Your dad’s an international businessman. Your mom’s in Milan designing handbags. You just transferred from a French boarding school.”

Tim squints at her. “Why France–?”

“Because it’s classy, plus you can speak French,” she says with a grin. “Now shut up and let me figure out your wig size.”

Tim drops his face into his hands with a low, muffled groan.

Cassandra leans over to peer at him, her expression soft, which from Cass is practically a motivational speech. “You’ll be pretty,” she says gently, giving his shoulder a small pat.

Tim lifts his head just enough to stare despairingly at the floor. “I hate this mission.”

Damian folds his arms, voice dry as sandpaper. “Try not to embarrass the family name, Drake.”

Tim exhales a long resigned breath, the kind that says he’s accepted his fate but will complain about it every step of the way. He’s absolutely going to regret this.

__________________

The next morning is, without exaggeration, hell.

Tim got maybe three hours of sleep, and that’s being generous. Two of those were spent half-heartedly pacing his room, trying to walk in a straight line without looking like a malfunctioning Roomba, and trying to figure out how to pitch his voice higher to mimic a teenage girl’s. 

And now he’s awake at 5 A.M. in Stephanie’s room, seated stiffly in a chair that smells vaguely of nail polish remover and vanilla body spray, while she yanks his soul out through his scalp.

“Sit still or I’m using zip ties.” Stephanie warns, voice chipper and evil as she tightens the wig straps at the nape of his neck.

Tim winces. “That’s not an idle threat, is it?”

“Not even a little.” She twists a section of black hair that’s shiny and unnaturally soft, curled at the ends like something from a shampoo commercial, before stabbing it in place with a bobby pin.

Tim glares into the mirror, watching in real time as his reflection transitions from sleep-deprived cryptid to transfer student from France whose parents own an art gallery.

Stephanie leans in, squinting one eye like an artist lining up a stroke. “You squirm more than Jason during an ethics lecture,” she mutters, tucking another coil of hair neatly behind his ear.

“That’s because you’re stabbing my brainstem.” Tim complains, gripping the chair arms. “I’m gonna have permanent nerve damage from this.”

Cassandra, perched silently on the dresser, rummages through Stephanie’s makeup bag, sifting through dozens of brushes and palettes. She lifts one out, holding it between two fingers. “Mascara or lashes?” she asks calmly.

“Neither,” Tim groans. “Isn’t the wig and the uniform enough?”

“You’re infiltrating an all-girls school,” Stephanie says without looking up. “You’ll stand out more if you don’t wear makeup. Besides, your bone structure is cheating. I barely have to contour.”

Tim scowls at his reflection. The worst part is they’re right. His face looks… passable. Soft angles. Big eyes. High cheekbones. It's unsettling how little effort it takes.

“I look like I should be writing poetry in a café about how no one understands me.”

Stephanie snorts, securing another bobby pin. “Honestly? You kinda do.”

Jason walks by the open door and immediately doubles back, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Is that Tim?”

Tim points at him without breaking eye contact through the mirror. “Out.”

Jason leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning like a hyena. “You look like you’re about to start a Gossip Girl reboot.”

“Leave,” Tim says flatly. “Before I add fratricide to my to-do list.”

Cassandra tilts Tim’s chin upward, unfazed. “Lip tint.”

“I swear to God,” Tim mutters. But he stays still. Mostly. She taps on a subtle cherry shade, almost delicate. Almost pretty.

Dick’s laugh echoes faintly from down the hall.

“Was that—was that Dick?” Tim demands, twisting in his chair.

Stephanie spins him back around with both hands. “Focus, Morgan.”

Tim groans and drops his head into his hands. His nail polish is light pink. When did they do that?

An hour later, he stands in front of the full-length mirror in Stephanie’s room, arms limp at his sides. The outfit is… thorough.

The plaid skirt hits just above the knee, crisp pleats swaying every time he shifts. The white blouse is tucked in with military precision, its collar brushing lightly against his neck like it’s mocking him. The navy cardigan is buttoned only halfway, because Stephanie said it made him look “effortlessly studious.”

The knee-high socks cling to him a little too comfortably, shiny black loafers squeaking faintly when he shifts his weight, because of course they do. The wig falls in soft waves past his shoulders, the fibers expensive and unnervingly realistic, brushing against his jaw every time he turns.

The glasses sit delicately on his nose, non-prescription, but fitted with a miniature. His skin looks even. Actually even. No dark circles haunting his eyes or stress lines around his brows. His lips are lightly tinted pink, lashes curled in gentle swoops. His face looks… soft.

He stares at himself like he’s trying to recognize a stranger in his own face.

The silence stretches long.

“This is hell,” is all Tim can say.

Stephanie grins behind him. “You say that now.”

“No,” Tim says hollowly, turning just enough to see her over his shoulder. “I mean it. Actual hell. Dante missed a circle and it’s this.”

Behind him, Duke makes an awful strangled sound, half cough, half suppressed laughter. “No, no, it’s… it’s nice. You look great. Really.” He’s trying to be supportive, but his eyes have that glassy, I can’t believe what I’m seeing shine.

Tim doesn’t even blink. “I’m so glad my suffering is visually pleasing for everyone.”

He tugs awkwardly at the edge of the skirt again, as if a few more centimeters of fabric will save him. The mirror doesn’t budge. He still looks like the sleep-deprived ghost of a private school honor student with unresolved trauma and perfect mascara.

Jason laughs, short and loud. “I can’t believe this is real. You look good, Timmy.”

“Please shut up.” Tim groans, deadpan.

“No, seriously,” Jason continues, still grinning like he’s watching the best sitcom of his life. “If this weren’t an all-girls school, some poor kid would’ve written a love poem about you by fourth period and passed out trying to confess.”

“Yeah. Super glad,” Tim mutters. “Truly. Peak life moment.”

Dick claps once, too cheerful. “Alright, walk test.”

Tim sighs and takes a few hesitant steps, wobbling slightly in the flats.

“I hate heels.” Tim mumbles, wobbling forward.

“They’re not heels, they’re flats.” Stephanie corrects, arms crossed.

“They feel like heels.”

Cassandra watches him walk, arms folded like a drill sergeant mid-assessment. “Loosen your arms. Smaller steps.”

Tim tries again, shoulders back, chin up, like he practiced last night while rethinking every life choice that led to this moment.

“Now smile,” Dick says, nodding encouragingly. “You’re the new kid. Try to look approachable, maybe even not like you’ve been trapped in a costume drama nightmare.”

Tim tries. The smile in the mirror looks like something a cashier gives when they’re about to quit.

“You look stiff,” Damian pipes up from the corner.

“Yeah, I can tell believe it or not.”

“Whatever,” Stephanie waves him off. “It’s passable. Voice test now. Let’s hear your ‘Morgan.’”

Tim exhales like he’s deflating. He clears his throat, shifts gears, and speaks, soft and careful, pitching slightly higher than normal but not exaggerated, “Hi, I’m Morgan Clarke. I just transferred in. Could you point me to the main office?”

Silence.

Stephanie blinks, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Duke tilts slightly in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Okay… that was… kind of scary.”

Jason stares at him like he just turned into a ghost. “Jesus. Talk about freaky.”

Cassandra nods thoughtfully. “You’ll blend.”

Tim’s face flattens, deadpan. “Awesome. Now can we please stop looking at me like I’m a lab experiment?”

“Sorry,” Stephanie says, “You’re just… aggressively passable. It’s actually unsettling.”

Tim drops his head into his hands again. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not really,” Jason says, still squinting at him. “It’s just weird knowing the person behind that wig and lip gloss once drank six Red Bulls in one setting and hacked the Pentagon just to see if he could.”

Tim groans. “Can we please return to the part where this is a trafficking ring op and not an episode of America’s Next Top Tim?”

“Not until we get pictures,” Jason lifts his phone. “Okay, say cheese–”

“If you take one photo,” Tim says without looking up, “I will break your phone and your kneecaps in the same throw.”

Jason raises his hands. “Jesus. You sound like the demon brat.”

“I will pretend you didn’t say that, Todd.”

A throat clears from the doorway.

Bruce enters the room, calm and composed like this is any other Tuesday briefing. “Everyone. Focus. Tim, your cover is solid. ID and school records are in your bag. I’m sure you’ve memorized your schedule, but there’s a printout just in case. Blend in. Observe. Make contact at lunch. If anything feels off—”

“I run. Yeah. Got it.”

Stephanie pulls him gently aside, all snark fading from her face. “Hey,” she says quietly. “You’re gonna be okay. Just one day. In and out and we’ll be on the comms the entire time. You’ve got this.”

Tim nods once, stiffly. His reflection still stares back, foreign and unblinking. Cassandra steps closer, straightening the collar of his cardigan, then presses something small into his hand. It’s a tiny, matte-black keychain canister. He doesn’t need to ask.

“In case anyone gets… weird,” she says, just loud enough for him to hear.

Tim closes his fingers around it. The weight is small but grounding. “Thanks.”

It’s the only weapon he’s allowed to carry, anything more could blow his cover. But having something is enough.

Cass nods. “You’ll be fine.”

He nods back, then exhales through his nose. Pulls himself up. Shoulders straight, smile soft. Approachable. Friendly. Fake.

“Alright,” Bruce says from behind them. “Alfred will take you to Westbridge. Class begins at 8:30.”

Tim glances one last time at the mirror. He’s Morgan Clarke now, a high school girl who transferred from France. He turns, grabs his bag, and walks out.

“Knock ’em dead, Timbo.” Jason calls behind him.

Tim flips him off without looking.

Chapter Text

The Bentley rolls to a smooth, silent stop outside Westbridge Institute’s front gates, gothic iron twisted into ornamental vines, discreet cameras tucked into every corner, and a gold-lettered sign that basically screams we eat the poor for breakfast.

Tim—no, Morgan—sits in the passenger seat, posture rigid, hand clenched so tight around the strap of his designer tote that it leaves nail marks. He adjusts his wig in the mirror for the fourth time, letting a few strands of black hair frame his face.

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

You’re just a girl walking into a school full of strangers who think all you care about is mascara, astrology, and whether Emma cheated on Josh over spring break. Easy.

Alfred’s calm, measured voice cuts through the tense silence. “Master Tim, do be careful.”

Tim musters a smirk, more muscle memory than anything real. “Aren’t I always?”

He opens the door and steps out.

He opens the door, and the cold air immediately bites at his legs, slipping under the knee-high socks and into every exposed inch. Students swarm the stone steps, clustering in tight little groups, laughing, whispering, shoving, rushing to get inside. None of them look at him yet. 

Good.

“Remember to smile, Tim.” Stephanie’s voice chirps in his ear, bright and clear through the comm. “Tilt your head a little when people talk to you. Play the new kid card. Everyone loves that.”

He straightens his shoulders, adjusts the too-soft cardigan on his shoulders, and walks. Flats, not heels, he will admit that now, click against polished stone. His pleated skirt sways slightly with every step. His legs are cold.

He finds he has a newfound respect for high school girls and their ability to survive frostbite with grace.

“Cass, you got visuals?” he mutters under his breath, scanning the crowd, eyes flicking over every corner of the courtyard.

“Clear.” Cassandra’s voice is steady, calm, anchoring. 

The lobby of Westbridge Institute is aggressively pristine, all marble floors, archways, and the sharp tang of citrus disinfectant that tries, and fails, to mask the scent of money in the air. Every surface gleams like someone polished it with a golden toothbrush. The receptionist sits behind the front desk, perfect posture, not even a blink out of place.

“You must be Morgan Clarke,” she says, her smile professionally practiced, as if it came with her job description.

Tim nods, voice soft and airy, just enough to float. “Yes, ma’am.”

She hands him a schedule, crisp and neatly folded, though he’s memorized it down to the room dimensions. “First period’s History, room 2B. Welcome to Westbridge.”

He flashes a smile that’s slightly too wide, a little stiff. “Thank you.”

“Posture up,” Cassandra reminds him through the comm. “You’re doing well.”

Tim walks down the hall, weaving between students with the practiced ease of someone casual and harmless, like he doesn’t know how to disable surveillance systems using only a phone charger and a hairpin. The polished floors reflect his flats with a soft click, and he makes a mental note: Don’t wobble. Don’t overthink. Blend.

He reaches room 2B and pauses, breathing through the tension tightening in his chest. Two gentle knocks. The door swings open.

Levi Everett. Tall, lean, clean-shaven, button-down shirt hugging his arms just enough to scream calculated effort. Sandalwood drifts faintly from him, layered with the subtle arrogance of old money. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, probably purely ornamental.

“You must be Morgan Clarke.” he says, smile polished but flat, like he practiced it in front of a mirror.

“That’s me.” Tim replies.

Everett gestures for him to come inside. Twenty-five pairs of eyes swivel towards him, pencils hovered mid-air. The classroom looks like the backdrop of an overpriced skincare ad, white walls and cream-colored desks, every detail curated to perfection. Students sit with manicured hands, each gaze raking over him with silent evaluation.

“This is Morgan.” Everett announces, his tone too bright. “She transferred in from France. Let’s give her a warm welcome.”

A smattering of polite, half-hearted “hi”s and “welcome”s floats across the room.

“You’ll sit over there,” Everett continues, pointing. “Next to Madison.”

Madison, he guesses, is the girl with fluffy curls and a seat to his right. She’s already giving him a slow, appraising once-over. Tim nods, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, and moves down the aisle carefully, making sure his steps aren’t too stiff, but not too confident. Just believable.

Everett’s eyes linger a moment too long, tracking him as he sits, an invisible pressure directed towards him.

“Watching your pattern,” Cassandra mutters. “Your habits.”

“He’s already weird,” Stephanie comments, “Keep your distance.”

Tim slides into the seat, the plastic creaking faintly under him, and pulls out a spiral notebook with deliberately rounded handwriting on the front: M. Clarke. His fingers are steady. His pulse is not. The wig itches at his temples, but he doesn’t scratch. Morgan wouldn’t. Morgan is poised.

He keeps his gaze forward, pretending to study the softly lit whiteboard, pretending Everett is just another teacher who she couldn’t care less about. He doesn’t even flinch when the blonde girl beside him leans in with the confidence of someone who has never in her life doubted whether people would talk to her.

“Hey,” she says brightly. “Morgan, right?”

Tim turns, offering a shy, breathy smile he practiced in the mirror until it felt natural. “Yeah. Just got in last night. Kinda nervous.”

“He’s watching you,” Damian says, clinically. “Probing you. Say nothing of use.”

Tim had already filed that under obvious.

“You’ll be fine,” Madison says, her curls bouncing as she tilts her head. “The teachers are annoying, but the work is pretty easy.”

Stephanie’s voice slides in again. “Compliment her. If nails are painted, go for that. Hair if not.”

Tim lets his eyes flick down, blue glitter polish catching the overhead lights like constellations.

“Your nails are really nice.” he says, soft but sincere.

Madison beams with instant, unfiltered delight. “Thanks! My cousin does them. She’s in beauty school.”

“Boom, friendship initiated.” Duke mutters quietly over the comm, tone approving and faintly amused. “Nice work.”

“Stay focused,” Damian snaps. “The mission hasn’t started.”

Tim pretends to study the schedule in his lap, like he’s just reviewing his classes. The plan is straightforward: survive until lunch, then sneak into the teacher’s lounge, grab Everett’s flash drive, extract the data, and exit smoothly like he was never there. Standard infiltration. 

Except the total lack of weapons.

He mentally mourns the comforting weight of a batarang.

The bell rings, sharp and chiming, signaling the start of class.

Tim sits straighter, shifting into academic mode effortlessly. When Everett starts lecturing about the Enlightenment, Tim’s hand moves automatically, notes filling the page in neat, looping cursive. He keeps his tone gentle when he answers a question, laced with just enough uncertainty to sound like a new student finding her footing.

When Madison nudges a piece of strawberry hard candy onto his desk with a conspiratorial wink, Tim simply gives her a gentle smile and tucks it into his pencil pouch like a treasure.

“Doing good, Timbit.” Jason says, voice a low rumble through the comm. Busy city noise hums behind him. “Just don’t fall in love with any of your classmates. Or trip on your shoes.”

Tim’s eye twitches, the closest he’ll allow himself to an eye roll. Instead, he leans back, crossing one leg over the other with a casual grace he absolutely did not feel twenty minutes ago, and lets himself settle into the role.

Just until lunch.

Just long enough to save lives.

Then Morgan Clarke will disappear like she was never there.

First period drags. Everett drones on about history with all the enthusiasm of a tax auditor reading footnotes, each sentence meticulously enunciated but lifeless. The most excitement comes in the form of a quiz that’s less about knowledge and more about how convincingly you can fill in a Scantron bubble. Tim finishes in under three minutes but deliberately adds two more minutes of slow, fake deliberation. 

Smart, but not suspiciously smart. Normal smart.

“Doing good, Tim.” Barbara murmurs softly in his comm. Her voice is calm, controlled, like a hand on his shoulder even though she’s miles away. “He hasn’t looked at you twice.”

“Left hand stays near his bag.” Cassandra adds, clipped and precise. “Flash drive’s probably there.”

Tim flicks his gaze forward, casual and unassuming. Everett is hunched over his desk, pen poised, fingers twitching occasionally toward the black satchel at his side. 

When the bell finally rings, Tim drifts with the crowd, shoulders slightly hunched to keep his frame smaller. Students shove past, earbuds in, phones out, half-asleep, half-bored. He slips into the current of them effortlessly.

Second period is put on autopilot, his mind instead running through the building’s layout which has imprinted itself into his memory like a mental blueprint. His thoughts flow to Everett’s bag, noting it’s almost certainly where the flash drive is, an arm’s reach away, always within sight. 

The bell rings for break, and Tim starts toward the end of the hall, keeping a neutral pace, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Morgan!”

Tim turns, smooth and slow.

Madison stands there, one hand perched on a locker, the other waving. She’s flanked by a tight cluster of girls who radiate subtle authority: luxury goods, glitter lip gloss reflecting the harsh overhead lights, half-lidded stares and polished laughter. A social hierarchy in motion disguised as casual chatter.

In other words, a social battlefield. Wonderful.

“Go,” Stephanie chirps in his comm, way too excited. “You’ve been summoned by the Plastics. Don’t blow it. Say something niche and tragic if they ask your favorite song. No Taylor Swift.”

Tim exhales slowly, shoulders tightening as he steps forward, folding his hands over his tote, scanning for escape routes while simultaneously rehearsing small talk. One wrong word here, one raised eyebrow there, and the whole mission could derail before lunch even hits. 

Tim adjusts his strap and walks over, posture just loose enough to look unpracticed.

“Hey,” he says, offering a soft smile that feels like it’s stitched on but just believable enough. His voice floats, airy, careful, and measured.

“This is Morgan,” Madison announces, chest puffed slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “She just transferred here from France.”

“Wait, like actually France?” one girl asks, head tilted. Her eyeliner is flawless, clip perfectly in place. 

“Boarding school.” Tim answers, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Near Lyon.”

“Ooh, fancy.” the first girl says, eyes widening.

“What was it like?” another probes, voice lilting.

Tim shrugs just enough to seem natural. “Strict. Cold. The food was better, though.”

“Ugh, jealous,” Madison says, giggling.

“Excellent,” Stephanie whispers, barely audible. “You’re giving mysterious but grounded. Let it simmer.”

Another girl—Avery, he thinks—tilts her head, studying him. “Why’d you transfer?”

Tim hesitates just long enough to feel authentic. “My parents’ jobs. We move around a lot.”

A ripple of sympathetic nods follows, a chorus of “Yeah, been there,” and “Totally understand,” washing over him like practiced waves.

“Wow,” Duke murmurs over the comm, voice low, impressed. “You’re… terrifyingly good at this.”

“Give it five minutes.” Jason mutters. “He’s gonna get recruited into the student council and forget all about us.”

Tim ignores them, instead responding with polite laughter to something Madison says. The girls chatter on, rapid-fire, jumping from topic to topic. Homework complaints, flirtations, hallway gossip. Someone offers him lip balm, which he smiles at and declines. Polite and harmless, just as he practiced.

He leans casually against the lockers, crossing one leg over the other, shoulders back but relaxed. “So… what’s the deal with the teachers here? They chill, or, like… academic overlords?”

Madison groans, dramatic. “Ugh, Mr. Hathaway has rage issues.”

“And Mrs. Calder stole someone’s AirPods once.” Avery mutters, tilting her head with a smirk.

“There’s this one guy,” the girl with the matcha latte adds, voice low, conspiratorial. “Mr. Everett? History? He’s… weird.”

Tim’s pulse doesn’t skip a beat, but his attention sharpens, every nerve alert.

“Weird how?” 

“He just asks a lot of personal stuff. Not like… creepy creepy, but…” She shrugs, tossing her hair. “Like, why do you need to know who my mom lives with?”

“He asked me about my siblings,” another girl adds, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “Then followed up with, like, ‘Are they older? Still at home? Are you close?’ Like who cares?”

“He’s building profiles,” Damian cuts in over the comm, clipped, cold. “Weak points. Family structure.”

“Keep them talking.” Bruce instructs calmly, voice a tether grounding him.

Tim shifts his expression into something amused, tapping a finger against his chin. “Sounds like he’s trying to write a Netflix docuseries.”

A ripple of laughter breaks through the group, breaking tension.

“Right?” Madison says, flipping her curls back. “I thought he was just nosy. Now you’ve got me paranoid.”

“You’ve got a few minutes before third period.” Stephanie says in his ear. “Try to steer it back to him. See if anyone’s seen where he keeps his stuff during lunch.”

Tim leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs, posture open and curious. “So does he, like… hang out somewhere specific during lunch? Office, lounge?”

The girls trade looks like they’re passing around a secret.

“Staff lounge, I think.” Olivia says, adjusting her headband. “But not with the other teachers. He’s always off to the side. Glued to his laptop.”

“He gets twitchy if anyone walks behind him,” Madison adds, lowering her voice. “Like paranoid-twitchy. I dropped my water bottle once and he practically whipped around.”

“And he leaves class immediately after the bell,” a third girl says. “Doesn’t chat, doesn’t grade papers, nothing. Just grabs his bag and disappears.”

“Definitely guarding something,” Duke notes. “Probably the drive.”

Tim swallows. His mouth is dry, wig starting to itch at the nape of his neck, but he nods like everything’s fine. Like he’s not tracking six variables at once while pretending to care about the social politics of high school girls.

Madison narrows her eyes. “Hey… why are you asking so many questions about him?”

Tim’s thoughts skid for a fraction of a second, but his face doesn’t show. He lets out a tiny, embarrassed huff, shoulders curling inward just slightly.

“Uh—sorry.” He gives a sheepish, self-deprecating smile. “Just nosy I guess. Had a teacher at my last school who was super shady, so now I’m just… aware.”

“Girl, same.” Olivia says immediately, rolling her eyes. “My last chem teacher got fired because he kept touching the girl’s heads.”

Madison snorts. “Okay, fair. You’re still weird, though.”

Tim smiles, soft and harmless. “Definitely not denying that.”

“Two minutes,” Stephanie warns. “Bell’s about to ring.”

He keeps that in the forefront of his mind, letting out another gentle laugh when one of the girls imitates a teacher’s monotone voice. The hallway noise swells around them, and he lets himself drift with the current.

When the bell rings, he moves with the group, light footsteps, shoulders slightly hunched, blending seamlessly into the pack. Just a new girl trying to find her way. Just another face in the hallway, but underneath the sugary smile and soft voice, Tim feels the shift, subtle and cold.

Levi Everett is a threat.

And Tim Drake is going to take him down.

__________________

Third and fourth period pass in a blur, the kind that leaves Tim's brain humming and his back tense from holding the same posture for too long.

He keeps his head down, his gaze skimming just over the tops of his glasses. His pen moves in smooth, controlled lines, his handwriting perfectly legible, but not standout. He doesn't speak unless directly addressed and smiles just enough to seem approachable, but not enough to invite attention. He’s quiet, polite, distant.

Exactly how he needs to be. Just another face in the crowd, another body in the third-row seat. 

The wig itches.

“He’s good,” Stephanie says in his ear, sounding both proud and amused. “Almost too good. Starting to think this isn’t your first undercover drag mission.”

Tim lifts a hand to adjust his glasses, middle finger extended.

Stephanie laughs. “Rude.”

“Focus,” Bruce cuts in, voice sharp in his ear but Tim can hear the slightest waver of amusement.

Tim welcomes the distraction. It’s something solid to hold onto while his brain splits itself into parts. Morgan Clarke, the quiet new girl with the soft voice and borrowed skirt, and Tim Drake, who’s watching every shadow in the corner of the classroom like it might blink wrong.

By the time the bell for lunch rings, his head is buzzing with energy. His legs are cramped, the elastic on his borrowed wig is starting to feel like sandpaper, and the millions of bobby pins stuck in his skull feels like it’s cutting into his scalp. 

The moment he stands, Madison hooks her arm through his and pulls him into orbit like a small, designer-scented moon. Avery and the others fall in step, talking over one another about homework, gossip, a junior who allegedly passed out from vaping in the back hallway.

Tim nods along, smiling when he’s supposed to. He offers a few vague, slightly sarcastic remarks just enough to keep them engaged. Just enough to stay invisible beneath the surface.

His eyes never stop moving.

“All right,” Dick’s voice crackles through his comm. “I’m inside. The teachers should be arriving soon. If this meeting doesn’t end with someone offering me tenure, I’m going to be insulted.”

“Lounge is clearing.” Barbara adds, calm and clipped. “You’ve got a window.”

Tim doesn’t hesitate. He pushes out his chair and brushes at his skirt. “Be right back. Gotta use the bathroom,” he says.

Avery doesn’t look up from her phone. “Don’t fall in.”

Tim slips out of the cafeteria like smoke, letting the tide of students cover his exit. His footsteps are nearly silent against the linoleum. His spine straightens, his muscles shift.

His mind runs the floor plan automatically, checking angles, blind spots, nearest exits. Every camera, every gap, every jostling cluster of students. It’s almost comforting, letting everything else fade until it’s just the mission, just the objective.

A shadow falls across his path, and he freezes.

“Whoa,” a voice says, breathless, just as a hand lands on his shoulder. Tim flinches back instinctively, eyes narrowing slightly. “Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t see you there.”

The hands linger a fraction too long, deliberate enough to set every alarm in Tim’s body on edge. He steps back fast, curling inward slightly, letting his expression smooth into mild, unthreatening neutrality.

“Oh,” he says, voice pitched just light enough to pass. “No worries. I wasn’t watching where I was going either.”

Every syllable is carefully measured, feminine enough to fit, but unremarkable enough to disappear into the hall’s ebb and flow. A voice meant to be ignored, to fade.

The man’s smile widens, stretching just a little too far, like he’s sharing some private joke Tim doesn’t understand. Late twenties, maybe, polished in that calculated way that’s supposed to pass for charming. His hair is slicked back like he binge-watches Jordan Peterson clips for fun, his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, lanyard bouncing with every shift of his weight.

He looks like the kind of guy who calls himself a feminist and still talks over every woman in the room.

Tim’s gaze flicks to his badge: Mark Jenson — Teaching Assistant.

Mark’s eyes drop down in a quick glance, assessing. Tim doesn’t need to follow them to know what they’re taking in: the loose cardigan, the pleated skirt, the high socks, the careful softness of Morgan Clarke.

He can feel himself being looked at. Catalogued.

Then Mark’s eyes snap back up with a too-innocent blink, like he wasn’t just mentally itemizing Tim’s entire body like it was a shopping list. But Tim saw it. He always sees it.

“New student?” Mark asks, voice smooth and velvety. Too smooth. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Tim straightens by instinct, spine aligning. His skin feels too tight, every nerve primed. “Uh… yeah.” He makes his voice smaller, gentler. “I’m Morgan Clarke. Nice to meet you, Mr. Jenson.”

“Welcome to Westbridge.” Mark leans a shoulder against the lockers like they’re in some cheesy teen drama. “We don’t get many new faces here. Especially not ones this pretty.”

Tim’s stomach knots. He smiles anyway, automatic, fingers twitching at his sides, brushing the hem of his skirt like it’s a grounding wire.

“Thanks,” he manages, soft, adding a breathy laugh that tastes like chalk.

 Stay in character, he tells himself. Keep it light. Don’t escalate.

“Creep alert.” Stephanie hisses in his ear, already vibrating with fury. “That’s a full-body violation.”

“Oh, he’s getting a bullet to the kneecap.” Jason growls.

Damian clicks his tongue. “He reeks of weak-willed sycophant.”

Tim keeps his posture perfect, but his brain is already spinning through scenarios, exits, checking to see if there are any witnesses if Tim decides to deck him.

“So,” Mark says, like they’re having the world’s most casual chat, “you’re a student or…?”

Tim tilts his head with a tiny, confused squint, playing the part. “Yeah.” Then, realizing it came out too blunt, adds a softer, almost shy smile. “Kind of figured the uniform gave it away.”

Mark laughs too loudly, too easily. Then he nudges Tim with his elbow like he already thinks he gets to touch him.

“Fair. No offense,” Mark says. “You’ve just got… I dunno, a mature vibe, y’know? Like you’re older.”

Jesus.

“I’m a TA,” Mark continues. “Interning while I get my teaching cert. I help with psych and English. You could say I’m in training.”

Tim nods like that’s fascinating and not a screaming red flag. “Cool. I’m just running something to the teacher’s lounge for Mr. Everett. He asked me to drop it off.”

Mark’s grin sharpens. He steps halfway into Tim’s path like he’s trying to shepherd him somewhere. “Already doing favors? Overachiever.” He winks. “I like that. Want me to show you the way?”

Tim’s mouth smiles, but his eyes go flat.

“No, thanks,” he says, still polite, but with a line of steel beneath it. “I’ve got it.”

“C’mon,” Mark says, grin widening like he thinks he’s charming. “It’s your first day, right? Don’t be shy. I’ll show you a shortcut.”

Tim’s jaw tightens for half a heartbeat. Not enough to be noticeable, unless you know what you’re looking for. He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, turning it into a buffer between them. His feet pivot subtly away, already angling toward escape.

His comm crackles.

“Tim,” Stephanie murmurs, voice tight enough to snap, “you good?”

“I’m fine,” Tim answers out loud, airy and even. Aimed at Mark. Aimed at the team.

Stand down. I’ve got this.

His smile shifts, just a bit sharper around the edges. “I really need to get going,” he says, and this time the softness is gone. No tilt, no performative shyness.

Just a blank wall.

Mark finally, finally, backs off with a chuckle, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, Morgan. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Tim gives him one last fake smile, before he turns and walks. He doesn’t look back.

When the hallway bends and Mark is fully out of sight, Tim lets the smile die. His shoulders draw tight. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw locked.

“Gross,” Stephanie says, disgust dripping from every syllable. “I’m filing a report. Don’t stop me.”

“We should break his nose,” Jason adds, entirely too cheerful. “Educational purposes. Teaching boundaries.”

Tim agrees. Deeply. Violently.

But not now.

“Babs,” he mutters, eyes forward. “Where do I go?”

Barbara’s voice slips into his ear, calm and precise. “Take a left, then second door on your right. Teachers’ lounge. Cameras show it’s clear for the next sixty seconds.”

Tim exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the static thrum of adrenaline in his veins. His heartbeat thuds in his ears, steady and sharp like a countdown clock ticking toward zero.

“2332.” Barbara says in his ear, crisp and clear.

Tim stops in front of the beige door. His fingers hover for half a second, then dance across the keypad in a rapid, practiced sequence. The lock clicks, unnoticeable in the busy hallway, and the door opens with a soft groan. A wave of stale air hits him. Burnt coffee, old carpet, disinfectant that definitely didn’t disinfect enough.

He slips inside.

The door closes behind him with a muted thud, and suddenly the world goes quiet. 

No time to waste. 

He moves quickly, eyes sweeping the room in a single trained pass. Desks littered with papers and half-drained mugs, pens chewed to death, a whiteboard smeared with a passive-aggressive plea about cleaning out the fridge, written in aggressively neat handwriting. But then, there. Back corner, on the far desk, like a beacon.

A worn black satchel, leather faded to gray around the edges, the initials LE embossed so subtly it nearly disappears in the light. His pulse jumps.

“Found his bag.” Tim whispers.

“Copy that,” Duke answers, voice low and steady, the anchor in Tim’s ear. “Extraction team standing by.”

Tim pulls the satchel closer, setting it on the counter with careful hands. His fingers are steady, but the tension in his arms hums like pulled wire. He reaches into his own tote and retrieves a sleek, matte-black gadget, custom-built for fast, discreet data extraction.

Definitely not student-issued.

“Uploading now,” he says, voice low as his fingers move fast, calibrating the device. A flash drive slips into the port with a soft click. A progress bar begins to crawl forward on the tiny screen.

His eyes dart back to the door. Then to the corners. Every tiny sound, the building creaking, the hum of overhead lights, registers too loud in his sharpened senses. He flinches when the AC kicks on.

“Twenty percent.” Damian says in his ear, steady as ever.

Tim shifts his weight, pacing tight, careful loops between desks. His shoulders are wound so tight they ache. Every second feels like it’s ticking against his ribs, tapping out a countdown he can’t control.

It’s fine. It’s under control. Just a few more minutes.

Static bursts across the comm, sharp and sudden. Then Dick’s voice barrels through, tight with urgency. “Guys, Everett just left the meeting.”

Tim’s head snaps up. “What?” he hisses. “I thought you were keeping him distracted.”

“I was,” Dick groans. “But he said he forgot his lunch in his bag. I stalled for as long as I could, but there’s only so many ways I can interrogate a grown man about food without looking like I’m, y’know, deranged.”

Tim’s hand dives into the satchel instinctively, rifling through pockets, checking compartments. There’s files, pens, a stack of graded quizzes, but no lunch. No Tupperware. No wrappers.

He curses silently. He’s coming back for the drive.

“Everett’s heading toward the lounge.” Barbara says quickly, keys clacking faintly in the background. “You have twenty seconds, tops. Get out now.”

Tim’s stomach twists hard. Twenty seconds isn’t enough time.

“Progress report.” he demands, already repositioning the satchel to its original position with mechanical precision.

“Thirty-six percent.” Damian replies coolly.

Shit.

Tim grits his teeth. His fingers curl around the connected flash drive, knuckles whitening, and shoves it into his own bag, ensuring the satchel looks untouched.

“Keep me updated,” he mutters. “I’m not leaving without that drive.”

He sprints silently toward the door, barely managing to slow into a casual stride as footsteps approach, sharp and clipped, getting closer.

The handle turns.

Tim schools his face into something open, friendly. The door swings open, and Levi Everett steps in, stopping short, brows lifting in surprised confusion.

Tim gives a practiced blink, then a sheepish smile. “Oh, Mr. Everett,” he says, tone light. “Sorry, I’m Morgan Clarke. I had your class this morning, first period. It’s my first day and I think there’s been a mix-up with my schedule.”

Everett’s gaze narrows. His arms fold across his chest, posture shifting ever so slightly toward suspicion. “Morgan Clarke, right. I remember. You should be in the front office for schedule mix-ups.”

“I did.” Tim keeps his voice steady, natural. “They said to come ask a teacher, but the lounge was empty.”

He shrugs just slightly, pulling a subtle, harmless expression. He’s just a poor lost student on her first day of school. Nothing more.

Everett frowns, glancing toward the back toward the satchel. “Staff meeting’s still going,” he mutters.

“Forty-nine percent.” Damian whispers in his ear.

Tim’s jaw aches from the effort of trying not clenching it. He keeps the soft, friendly smile in place. “Would you mind helping me? Just really quick?”

Everett studies him for a beat too long, searching for the seams in the story. Then he exhales, resigned. “What do you need help with?”

Tim keeps his expression open, the perfect picture of a nervous transfer kid just trying to get his bearings. “Just figuring out where I’m supposed to go next. My third period was wrong too, but Mr. Davis helped me before class. He told me to check with the office, and they sent me here.”

Everett raises a single eyebrow, but his arms drop. The tension in his shoulders unwinds. “Fair enough. Not the first kid to get shuffled around.”

“Do schedule mix-ups happen often?” Tim asks, feigning polite curiosity.

“Fifty-three percent.” Damian reports.

Everett chuckles, dry and tired. “All the time. Part of the charm of public education.”

Tim laughs, one small, believable huff of amusement. “Just my luck. On my first day, too.”

“Come on. I’ll check the system.” Everett turns and gestures toward the ancient, groaning desktop computer at his desk.

Tim follows, staying half a step behind, mentally tracking every angle between them, the bag, and the drive still downloading in his bag. He positions himself deliberately between the satchel and Everett. 

“Sixty percent.” Damian murmurs.

“So,” Tim says lightly, easing into harmless small talk, “what’s it like teaching here?”

Everett shrugs, sitting down. “Depends on the class.”

“Do you have a favorite era?”

“I stick to early American, mostly.”

Tim nods, leaning just enough to see the monitor but not enough to shift out of position. “Nice. I was always more of a tech person, but I like the idea of history being… I don’t know. Stories people actually lived.”

“Seventy percent.”

“That’s a nice way to think of it,” Everett says, sliding into the chair fully. He begins typing, his attention finally off Tim and squarely on the screen. “Okay, here we go. Looks like you’ve got math with Mrs. Perry next.”

Tim groans playfully. “Math, huh? That sounds… fun.”

Everett smirks. “It’s a challenge.”

“Mind if I take a photo of the schedule?” Tim asks, casual as anything, just a normal student trying not to get lost the rest of the day.

“Go ahead.”

“Eighty percent.”

Tim nods and reaches into his bag. He ruffles around, not obviously, but just enough to stall, his fingers brushing past books and pouches. The seconds stretch thin as thread, before he grabs his phone and lifts it smoothly, holding it steady as he snaps a picture of the computer screen.

Click.

The shutter sound breaks the tension for a second. Just a student taking a harmless photo. Totally normal.

“Thanks for your help,” Tim says, layering warmth into his expression like paint. “I’d probably be late otherwise and, you know, not really a good look on my first day.”

Everett offers a smile of his own, thin and tight. There’s no warmth in it. His eyes keep drifting, too frequently and too intently, to behind where Tim stands. Where his satchel is. 

He knows something’s off.

“Yeah,” Everett says at last, still not meeting Tim’s eyes. “Wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Ninety percent.” Damian whispers, nearly overlapping with Everett’s voice.

Tim’s brain screams behind his calm mask. He shifts casually, just enough to stay between Everett and the satchel, like he’s simply adjusting his balance.

“I’ll head out now.” Tim says lightly, tugging at his bag deliberately slow, trying to eat at the time. “You said Mrs. Perry teaches math, right? Anything I should know? Surprise pop quizzes? Strict seating chart? Any way I can get on her good side?”

Everett’s brow rises, irritation threading into his expression, but he answers anyway. “Not really. Just don’t sit in the back row. She hates it.”

“Ninety-five.”

Almost there. Come on. Faster.

Tim lets out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Front and center it is. Got it. And she’s the type who notices if you forget a calculator?”

“You’ll survive.” Everett mutters, clipped. “Anything else?”

Tim pretends to think, just a beat too long. “Not really. I really appreciate you helping me out though. First days suck even without the tech issues.”

“Hey, any time.” Everett’s tone warms slightly, but his eyes flick downward again, toward the shifting weight of Tim’s backpack.

Calculating.

Tim adjusts the strap with an easy flick, like he has nothing to hide. “Right. I should really get going.”

“Ninety-eight,” Damian mutters in his ear.

Tim’s lungs cinch tight. So close.

He pulls out his phone again, knitting his brows just a little. “Wait—can I double-check the room number? I think I blinked and missed it.”

Everett exhales sharply and swivels the monitor back toward himself. “Room 205. You can’t miss it. Big glass window in the door.”

Tim nods, lips pulling tight. “Awesome. Thanks.”

There’s a pause.

“Hundred percent.” Damian says. “You’re clear.”

Relief floods Tim’s chest but he doesn’t let it reach his face. Not yet.

In one smooth movement, he slides his phone into his bag and retrieves the drive with the same motion. The metal is cool against his palm.

Got it.

He drops it into the satchel like he’d never touched a thing. “Alright, don’t want to keep my friends waiting. Thanks again, Mr. Everett.”

He’s halfway to the door when, “Wait.”

The word slices through the air like a knife.

Tim freezes. His spine locks, every muscle coiled and ready. His hand lingers on the door handle, every nerve screaming run. Behind him, Everett takes a step. Then another. Slow, deliberate, predatory.

“You said the office sent you here,” Everett says, his voice smooth but fraying around the edges, sharpening into suspicion. “But they’ve been in meetings all morning. No one would’ve told a student to come to an empty lounge.”

Tim turns with a tight, apologetic smile already in place. “I figured they meant someone might stop by,” he says lightly. “Didn’t realize I’d be interrupting anything. Thought I’d get lucky and run into someone who could help.”

His voice is calm, his hands stay loose, but his pulse thunders against his ribs, echoing in his ears like war drums. Everett’s gaze doesn’t move from him. It’s hunting across Tim’s face, his posture, the bag on his shoulder.

“You looked nervous when I came in.” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping low. “Real nervous. Like you weren’t supposed to be here at all.”

Tim feels the shift in the air, danger closing like a door. He edges back, keeping his movements small, harmless. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to break any rules. I just wanted to figure out where I was supposed to be. Y’know get my schedule straight. I didn’t touch anything–”

Everett’s hand snaps out, closing around Tim’s wrist. 

Hard.

Pain flares up Tim’s arm. The grip isn’t clumsy or panicked. It’s deliberate. Controlling.

Tim goes perfectly still.

Everything inside him quiets, locks into focus, options calculating fast in the back of his skull. Everett’s fingers dig in deeper. His smile is gone, peeled off like a mask, his face twisting into something cruel.

“What were you doing with my bag?” Everett snarls, his voice all venom and gravel. “You looking for something?”

Tim opens his mouth, scrambling for an excuse, when Cassandra’s voice crackles in his ear, low and unmistakably grim. “He knows.”

Oh, fuck it.

Tim doesn’t hesitate. He drives a fist straight into Everett’s jaw, knuckles cracking against hard bone. Everett reels back, snarling in pain, but not enough. Not fast enough.

Tim pivots to bolt, but Everett lunges, fingers snapping tight around Tim’s ankle. Tim’s body is yanked backward violently, slamming into the floor. Pain ripples through his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs in a sharp, choking gasp.

“Tim?!” Stephanie’s voice hits the comm like a slap, sharp with panic. “Tim, what was that? Are you okay?!”

He has no breath to answer.

Everett is already on him, dropping his weight like a collapsing wall. His forearm slams across Tim’s chest, crushing down with terrifying strength. Tim chokes on a breath he can’t pull in, muscles spasming under the pressure.

“What did you do?!” Everett spits, voice cracking into something ragged and feral. “What did you do?!”

Tim bucks beneath him, teeth bared, desperation clawing up his throat. “Get off—!”

Everett only presses harder. His weight pins Tim to the cold floor like a cinderblock, compressing bone, grinding the air out of him.

“Tim!” Barbara barks in his ear, voice razor-sharp.

His fingers fumble against his jacket, shaking and searching, until they close around cold metal. The canister. With a choked gasp, Tim yanks his arm up and sprays.

The hiss is sharp. So is Everett’s scream.

“What the fuck—?!” Everett shrieks, lurching back, hands flying to his face. Tears streak down his cheeks instantly, eyes blazing red as he stumbles, blinded and howling.

Air floods back into Tim’s lungs in a violent gasp. He coughs hard, body convulsing as the crushing weight disappears. Every inhale burns. He doesn’t waste a second.

Tim kicks out hard, heel slamming into Everett’s ribs. The sound is a heavy, satisfying thud. Everett collapses sideways, sputtering curses. Tim scrambles up, chest heaving, adrenaline spiking so fast it feels electric. He snatches his bag off the floor in one smooth, practiced motion.

Then he runs.

No hesitation, no looking back. JJust pure, trained instinct.

He hits the lounge door like a battering ram and it bursts open, slamming against the wall with a crack. Tim launches into the hallway at full sprint, footsteps pounding in a rapid, rhythmic cadence. 

“I’m fine,” he huffs into the comm between breaths. “Jay, I need that emergency extraction now!”

“At the main gate. Move your ass.” Jason’s voice crackles back, engine already roaring behind him like a war drum.

Tim explodes into a flood of students clogging the hallway. He slams into a backpack, ricochets off someone’s shoulder. A girl shrieks. Someone curses. Bodies stumble and swirl around him, a wave he forces himself through.

Behind him, Everett’s voice tears through the noise, raw and furious, “Stop her!”

The command detonates through the hall like a flashbang. Heads snap toward Tim instantly, some out of surprise, some out of suspicion. Some because Everett sounds like he’s seconds from murder.

A teacher steps out into Tim’s path just ahead, arm raised in a pathetic attempt at authority. “Hey! You—stop right there!”

Yeah, not happening.

“Second hallway’s locking down,” Barbara cuts in, sharp. “Security’s moving. Cut through the side stairwell. Now.”

Tim veers hard to the right, flats skidding across tile as he barrels toward the Maintenance Only door. His fingers catch the handle mid-stride, throwing his weight into it. The stairwell swallows him, and the clang of the door behind him rings like a bell in his ears.

Metal stairs blur beneath him as he leaps down three at a time. His calves burn, lungs searing, but he keeps moving. His heel catches on the edge of the next step.

Shit.

He stumbles forward, knees crashing into the next landing, the world lurching sideways and one of his shoes goes flying off, bouncing down the stairwell with a sickening clatter.

“Tim!” Stephanie shouts in his ear. “You okay?!”

“Fine!” he groans, already scrambling upright. 

Fuckass shoe.

He doesn’t stop to grab it. There’s no time. He just presses on, one foot thudding with the rubber sole, the other sock sliding awkwardly on the cold metal stairs. It’s clumsy, messy.

He adapts.

“Watch your six,” Barbara warns. “He’s right behind you.”

“He’s not catching me,” Tim growls, and it’s half a promise, half a plea. He won’t get caught. He can’t.

“Twenty meters,” Jason grunts, engine rumbling in the background. “Haul it, nerd.”

Tim bursts out into the daylight, squinting as sunlight assaults his eyes. The world feels too bright, too wide, but he doesn’t slow. There’s no time.

Behind him, security shouts explode outward, boots hammering pavement, radios cracking with noise, someone yelling, “Stop that kid!”

Jason’s bike shrieks around the corner, red and gleaming, brakes screaming as it cuts a tight circle to the curb. Jason’s helmeted head turns toward him, gloved hand extended.

“Grab on!”

Tim doesn’t hesitate. He sprints the last few feet and vaults onto the bike, swinging his leg over the seat like it’s second nature. He clutches Jason’s jacket with both hands, anchoring himself.

“Go, go, go!”

Jason doesn’t need to be told twice.

The engine roars like something feral, tires screaming as he guns it down the street. They tear forward through smoke and shouted curses, students scattering like startled pigeons. One kid screams. Another cheers.

“You alive back there?” Jason shouts over the wind.

Tim swallows hard, chest heaving. “Yeah.”

“Status?” Bruce’s voice cuts into the comm line, controlled in that way that means he’s worried. “Tim. Are you alright?”

Tim exhales, breath steadying now that the danger is behind him. “I’m fine. Please tell me you have the drive.”

“We got it.” Duke confirms. 

Thank fuck.

Cassandra’s voice follows, soft and warm in a way that hits harder than anything else. “You did well.”

Jason barks out a delighted laugh, loud over the engine. “Well? The kid pepper-sprayed a teacher and outran three floors of security! He’s did fucking great!”

“Controlled chaos.” Tim says, but there’s a hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

The adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving his muscles trembling and his heartbeat still too fast. He slumps forward slightly, letting the wind cool the last of the panic in his chest.

He’s safe.

He made it.

Chapter Text

The next day, Tim wakes up to his face taking the internet by storm.

Tim sinks deeper into the couch in the living room like he’s trying to merge with it on a molecular level, hoodie hood pulled up, arms crossed like he’s trying to disappear into himself. Unfortunately for him, his family has other plans.

"You're trending." Barbara announces, completely unbothered as she tosses a tablet into his lap.

It lands with a soft thud, and Tim glares at it like it’s a live grenade.

"Don't be dramatic," she adds. "You're only the number one topic on Twitter. Well, technically 'Cinderella on Motorcycle' is. But close enough."

Jason strolls in mid-sip from his morning coffee and leans over Tim’s shoulder to glance at the screen. “Oh my god, they put a sepia filter on your face.”

“Go away.”

“Too late.” Jason smirks. “I’m emotionally invested now. Look, someone painted you.” He tilts the tablet. “It’s a watercolor. You’ve got sparkles in your eyes. And would you look at that, no shoe.”

Damian enters now, tilting his head, unimpressed. “One shoe to be exact. Like a common fairytale buffoon. You’ve reduced yourself to Grimm-level theatrics.”

“I know I lost a shoe,” Tim groans, dragging the hood lower. 

“Do you?” Stephanie pipes in, sliding down the stair railing. “Because the internet is romanticizing it as a symbolic shedding of constraints.”

“Pretty sure it was just a shitty buckle and a bad fall from the stairs.” Tim mutters.

“Let us not downplay the poetry.” Duke says, joining the crowd. “You threw open those doors like a Studio Ghibli protagonist escaping the patriarchy.”

“You guys are exaggerating.” Tim says, arms crossed, face buried half in the couch.

“Oh no,” Duke says, tone solemn and devastatingly earnest. “We’re underselling it.”

“Steph, play the clip again.” Jason announces, flopping into an armchair with the enthusiasm of someone settling in for a six-hour documentary on other people’s suffering.

“No,” Tim groans. “Please. For the love of God, don’t–”

Too late. 

The living room’s central monitor lights up, and suddenly there it is: a shaky student phone recording, timestamped and very, very viral.

The video starts mid-yell, Everett’s voice shouting “Stop her!” muffled by distance. Then, the doors at the far end of the hall explode open like they’ve been hit with a wind tunnel. Tim bursts through them.

In his memory, it had been chaos. Blinding sun, heart jackhammering in his chest, tote bag half-zipped, one shoe missing, and security screaming bloody murder behind him. He remembers tripping, wheezing, swearing, and fighting for his life. But in the video?

It looks like a goddamn perfume commercial.

His hair catches the breeze in perfect slow motion. His lips part like he’s about to confess a devastating secret, that oversized cardigan billowing dramatically behind him like a custom-tailored cape. The sun is positioned at the exact right angle to create a golden halo around his entire stupid being. Birds practically should be singing.

Somewhere behind the camera, a girl breathes out, “Holy shit, she’s gorgeous.”

Jason snorts so violently, he almost drops his cup.

Tim just stares at the screen, watching his past self in mid-sprint, hair flying, eyes sharp, coat billowing behind him like he’s in a fucking drama trailer. He looks ethereal. He looks ridiculous.

“I looked like that?” he asks, horrified. 

Barbara’s smirking. “You look like you stepped off the set of a perfume advertisement.”

“Or a Bridgerton spinoff,” Stephanie adds, twirling a lock of her hair for effect. “Very running-from-my-arranged-marriage energy.”

“Y’know,” Duke says thoughtfully, “if you hadn’t been running for your life, it would've made a great college entrance ad. ‘Westbridge Institute: Where Dreams Take Flight.’”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Cassandra smiles, “Pretty.”

Well, from Cassandra it isn’t so bad. She’s genuine at least, unlike the others.

“No, seriously,” Barbara says as she scrolls. “I’ve seen three different fancams set to Lana Del Rey.”

“Four now,” Dick chimes in cheerfully as he strolls in, holding up his phone like a trophy. “This one has sparkles edited onto your lashes.”

“Are those fake?” Duke asks, lifting his own phone for a closer look.

“Nope.” Stephanie beams, popping the p, “Real ones accented with mascara. What can I say, he’s all natural.”

“Would now be a bad time to mention that the top trending hashtag is ‘#CinderellaAndTheBiker’?” Barbara asks innocently.

Tim’s head snaps up. “What?”

She turns the tablet toward him and sure enough, the homepage of Twitter is a pastel hellscape: screenshots of him sprinting, leaping onto Jason’s bike, Jason’s hand extended dramatically. Someone’s added a quote overlay that reads He didn’t let her fall.

Jason stares at the screen like it has personally offended him. “Okay, that’s disgusting.”

“Oh my god!” Duke exclaims, absolutely delighted. “There’s a fan account that only posts blurry zoom-ins of Jason on the bike with captions like he waits for her every morning.”

Jason recoils like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t wait for nobody. I was under duress!”

“They think you’re dating,” Stephanie sing-songs. “Apparently, you’ve been secretly in love with her since freshman year and you met at detention and bonded over motorcycle grease and poetry.”

“What the hell—” Jason makes a noise of pure offense. “Okay, I like motorcycles and poetry, but Tim?”

“Wow,” Tim deadpans. “Crushed. So much for our forbidden romance.”

“You two have zero chemistry,” Damian adds, walking in with a bowl of cereal. “You’re both too emotionally constipated to pull off a functional relationship.”

“I am not emotionally–” Tim starts, then stops himself. “You know what? Not addressing that.”

Jason glares at the tablet like he can set it on fire with his mind. “Why is everyone acting like I’m some leather-jacket-wearing himbo who rescues runaway princesses?”

Stephanie snorts. “Because you are wearing a leather jacket. And you did rescue a runaway princess.”

Tim throws a pillow at her. “I am not a princess.”

Bruce, finally descending from the stairs, glances at the crowd with mild exasperation. “Do I want to know why the media is calling my son ‘the mysterious girl with the shoeless heart?’”

“No, you do not,” Tim mutters into his hands.

Jason jerks a thumb toward him. “Ask Cinderella over here.”

Bruce’s sigh is the long-suffering kind, the I-raised-orphan-vigilantes-for-this? kind. “Just tell me no one knows it’s Tim.”

Barbara holds up a finger. “Surprisingly no.”

Jason kicks his feet up on the coffee table and crosses his ankles. “Hey, look on the bright side. If vigilante work ever stops panning out and you get fired as CEO, you can be a perfume model.”

Tim drags his face out of the couch cushion just enough to arch a brow. “I don’t think you understand how being a CEO works.”

Alfred clears his throat from behind them, stepping in with a tray of tea. “Might I suggest reframing the situation as a tactical advantage? Your… ah, ‘ethereal hallway debut’ appears to have drawn attention away from the actual mission details.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “You too, Alfred?”

Alfred doesn’t even blink. “I merely said ‘ethereal,’ Master Tim. I did not claim to support the narrative of your… admirers.”

Barbara’s still scrolling. “Oh look, someone made a Spotify playlist. It’s titled She Rode Into the Sunlight: A Love That Wasn’t Meant to Last.’”

Tim and Jason groan in perfect unison.

“I’m leaving Gotham,” Tim announces flatly. “I’m burning my fingerprints, changing my name, moving to Antarctica.”

“I’ll drive you,” Jason says, straight-faced. “But not on the motorcycle. People will get the wrong idea.”

__________________

After two days, the trafficking ring is dismantled. Everett is behind bars for selling student information to gangs, and the missing girls are finally safe. Shaken and exhausted, but alive. It’s a clean win, or as clean as Gotham ever lets them have.

Tim should feel proud. He should feel relieved.

Instead, he’s trying to survive the never-ending avalanche of internet chaos revolving around Morgan Clarke. What started as a couple blurry hallway videos has exploded into full-blown fandom: fancams with melodramatic fade-ins, conspiracy threads about his “mysterious backstory,” fan art, shipping polls, and God help him, romantic edits of him him sprinting through school halls like some dramatic heroine in a teen drama.

It would be easier to handle if his entire family weren’t actively making it worse.

They’re at a coffee shop now, tucked into a corner booth with mismatched mugs and flaky pastries. A little victory lap. No arrests to dodge, no explosions to contain, just the scent of espresso and the hiss of steamed milk cutting through the quiet hum of conversation. For once, they look like a normal family if you squint past the Kevlar under their jackets and the collective caffeine addiction.

Tim is halfway through his drink, hoodie hood pulled low, when Stephanie gasps loud enough to turn three heads.

“Oh my god, there’s fan art?!”

“God,” Tim mutters, “I hate the internet.”

“I don’t.” Duke leans over the table, flashing his phone. “Look, someone drew you and Jason riding off into the sunset. Your hair is sparkling. Like, actually sparkling.”

Jason leans in, squinting. “Why am I holding a rose in my mouth?”

“You’re the mysterious, enigmatic bad boy who swept her off her feet.” Stephanie stage-whispers. “The internet is writing epics about you two. Class divide, forbidden romance, star-crossed lovers fleeing the corrupt school system. Someone wrote a fic where your motorcycle explodes and you die in each other’s arms.”

“I hope we do.” Tim mutters. “Painfully. In real life.”

Damian doesn’t even glance up from his hot chocolate. “If you are both going to perish, do it quietly. Some of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful afternoon.”

Tim shoots him a flat look. “You’re thirteen. You shouldn’t even know what fanfiction is.”

“I patrol the internet for security threats,” Damian says primly. “Unfortunately, your fanbase is one of them.”

Tim sighs, sinking deeper into his seat like he can physically disappear into the faux-leather cushion.

“Anyway,” Duke says, tapping his screen, “I give it a week before someone starts selling ‘Cinderella on a Motorcycle’ merch. You should at least get royalties.”

“God, don’t give them ideas,” Tim groans.

“Too late,” Barbara adds cheerfully, sliding her phone across the table. “Someone already made a sticker pack. There’s a vinyl of you mid-hair-flip with the words ride or die in sparkly font.”

Jason picks it up, frowns. “...Okay, but that art style’s kinda sick.”

Tim just sighs. What else can he do with his family’s unrelenting agenda to torment him?

Dick ruffles his hair, which is impressive considering Tim’s nearly folded in half with how far he’s hunched. “You’re famous, baby bird. Soak it in. You’re the moment.”

Just then, the barista drops off their extra drinks with a chipper smile. She pauses, eyes catching on Tim, and tilts her head. “You know,” she says, squinting, “this is so random, but you look exactly like that girl from the Westbridge video. The Cinderella with one shoe? It’s kind of uncanny.”

Tim freezes, straw halfway to his mouth like he’s been caught mid-crime.

“Cinderella?” Tim echoes innocently, blinking. “No way.”

From across the table, Stephanie turns red, trying not to explode with laughter. Jason chokes on his drink, sputtering into his sleeve. Duke is resolutely facing the wall, his shoulders shaking silently. Barbara just smiles politely at the oblivious barista. Cassandra is hiding behind her phone, no doubt filming. Dick ducks his head, snickering into his croissant. Damian lets out a sigh that sounds years older than he is.

“Yeah!” the barista continues, “She was so cool. And that guy on the motorcycle? Literal swoon. Everyone thinks they’re dating, but no one knows who they are. Total internet mystery.”

Tim blinks. “Huh. Wild.” The words fall flat, delivered with the emotional weight of a tax form.

“Right?” she laughs, grabbing an empty mug. “Anyway, sorry. You just look so much like her. Like, spooky identical. Could be twins or something.” She gives a cheerful little wave and wanders off, humming to herself.

Tim stares into the distance, dead-eyed. Slowly, he turns back to the table. “Not. One. Word.”

“We didn’t say anything.” Bruce replies evenly, sipping his coffee.

“You didn’t have to.”

Jason is audibly wheezing, “Oh my god. The look on your face. I think I pulled something trying not to laugh.”

“Your face,” Stephanie gasps, wiping tears from her eyes. “You went so pale. Like she accused you of murder.”

“I wish she had.” Tim mutters. “At least then I’d be arrested and not mocked into eternity.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t recognize you.” Dick says, grinning like an idiot. “I was two seconds from pulling the fire alarm.”

“Cowards,” Damian huffs. “We should’ve abandoned the premises the moment she made eye contact.”

Bruce just sighs into his coffee like he’s trying to disassociate from all of them.

“I’m faking my death,” Tim says. “Good luck finding another CEO to replace me.”

Jason claps him on the back. “Too late, Timmy. You already died tragically in my arms, remember?”