Chapter Text
Location: Lazarus Stronghold Interior – 6:08 a.m.
The room reeked of iron and fire.
Stone walls flickered under emergency lights—strobing red over shadowed faces. Blood spattered the floor in streaks that hadn’t been there minutes ago.
Cassandra stood at the far end, blade angled low, eyes already tracking the corridors. Barbara in their ears, her fingers dancing as she rerouted the League’s defense system in real time.
Tim was bleeding.
Badly.
Dick’s arm braced him upright while his other hand spun an escrima stick in warning arcs. Jason stood in front of them both, weight shifted into a protective crouch. Boots planted. Rifle lowered. Every inch of him said: You’ll have to go through me.
Ra’s stood at the other end of the hall.
Unbloodied. Calm.
Bruce stepped forward to face him, cloak sweeping, expression unreadable but rage simmering just beneath. “You turned him into this.”
Ra’s smiled. “No, Detective. I revealed him. You trained the mind. I gave it freedom.”
Tim’s fingers twitched around the wound in his side. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. He hadn’t screamed again, not since the strike. Jason hated that more than the blood. He'd rather Tim curse, cry, anything —but this quiet, controlled collapse?
It wasn’t right.
“Jay,” Tim rasped, voice like gravel. “If I lose control—”
“You won’t.” Jason’s answer was immediate, hard. “Shut up and stay alive.”
“But if I—”
Dick grabbed him. Fist curled into the collar of the League blacks, yanking Tim closer. Their foreheads nearly touched.
“I already buried one brother,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare make me do it again.”
Tim blinked.
And nodded.
The flicker of green in Jason’s eyes faded.
Not gone—but held at bay.
Then the silence shattered.
Ra’s lunged forward, blade unsheathed in a single hiss of metal. Bruce met him head-on, striking with brutal efficiency, while Damian launched from the side with a shout, his sword flashing like a vengeful comet.
The room exploded into chaos.
Cass flowed like liquid through the melee, every motion a death sentence. Duke and Steph took opposite flanks, weapons spinning, holding the incoming waves at bay. Barbara barked orders into the comms, rerouting turrets and locking doors behind them.
Tim stumbled.
Jason was already there.
“Cover my left,” Tim gritted. “You’re better with knives.”
Jason’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t argue.
They moved in sync. Fought in sync.
Jason hadn’t seen anything like it since Dick at his prime. Or maybe Bruce when he was angry. Tim wasn’t the same as before—he was sharper now, ruthless in execution. Cold where he used to hesitate. The Pit hadn’t broken him.
It had refined him.
And Jason hated how much sense that made.
Across the room, Bruce faltered—Ra’s landed a blow across his ribs. A red splash bloomed across the Batsuit.
Tim saw it.
And moved.
No hesitation. Just motion.
A streak of black across the chamber—ducking, spinning, evading with impossible speed. Every movement calculated, premeditated. Not instinct.
Strategy.
He closed the distance in seconds. Ra’s pivoted—but Tim was already low, sweeping his leg, unbalancing him. Then he twisted, drove upward—and Jason saw it:
The hidden blade in his shattered gauntlet.
A whisper of steel.
Then blood.
Ra’s gasped. Staggered. Dropped to one knee, fingers clutching his throat.
“No heir of mine,” he choked.
Tim’s hand didn’t tremble.
“I was never yours,” he said coldly.
And then—he dragged the blade across Ra’s’ throat.
The stronghold went silent.
Even the flames in the sconces seemed to stop dancing.
Ra’s al Ghul collapsed.
Jason was there before Tim hit the ground. Caught him, half-crouched, pressing a hand to his side to stop the worst of the bleeding.
Tim’s eyes were wide, unfocused.
They flickered green.
Then gold.
Then—
Blue.
He was still in there.
“You good?” Jason asked, voice rougher than he intended.
Tim looked up at him—raw, blood-smeared, blinking slowly like his brain had only just caught up to what his body had done.
And he whispered, “Told you I wasn’t broken.”
Jason stared down at him, mouth tight. Then he snorted—half-hysterical, half-exhausted.
“No,” he said. “You’re worse.”
Tim blinked.
“You’re one of us.”
Then Bruce was there—kneeling beside them, checking Tim’s side. Damian stood behind him, sword lowered, expression unreadable.
Cass and Dick closed ranks at the perimeter, watching the smoke begin to curl from the far end of the corridor.
Ra’s wasn’t moving.
For now.
“Oracle,” Jason snapped into the comm. “Status?”
Barbara’s voice came in fast. “Extraction route’s ready. South corridor. But you’ve got League enforcers converging in under four minutes.”
“Then we’re out,” Dick said. “Now.”
Bruce lifted Tim with careful hands. This time, Tim didn’t protest. He just pressed a blood-slicked hand against Bruce’s chest and let himself be carried.
They withdrew, this time.
As they moved, Jason looked back one last time.
The firelight flickered over Ra’s’ body. His eyes were still open, bleeding into the stone.
But he was smiling.
Jason didn’t trust it for a second.