Archive of Our Own ^beta

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 just wants to sleep.

Everyone’s already here.

Dick’s perched on the railing with casual elegance, like the acrobat he still is under all the Nightwing polish. Jason leans against the table with his arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Damian sits ramrod straight, hands folded neatly, tension buzzing off him in waves. Duke’s spinning slowly in one of the chairs, sneakers squeaking lightly on the floor with each half-turn. Stephanie stands beside him, chewing on a granola bar. 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 stops spinning. Tim straightens automatically, ignoring the burning stiffness in his back.

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 with ivy rather than a school.

Bruce continues. “They’re targeting vulnerable students, girls with unstable home lives. Neglected. Forgotten. They watch the girls, confirm no one would notice till it’s too late. Then they vanish out of state into so-called mentorship programs that don’t exist. The paperwork is doctored, transfers approved through shell organizations.”

Tim feels his stomach turn, slow and cold. He already knows where this is going. Another click. The screen changes to a blurry photo of a man in his 40s, talking to someone just out of frame.

“This is Levi Everett. History teacher at Westbridge. Last week, he was seen handing a flash drive to a known associate of the Ruiz cartel. According to our source, it contains names and schedules of possible victims.”

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

Bruce’s voice is low. “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. “Got it. Who’s going in?”

Bruce brings up a school roster. Another click opens a forged email trail, complete with fake transcripts, photos, transfer forms. Tim’s already frowning before Bruce even says it.

“Westbridge is an all-female institution.”

A beat of silence.

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

“Too risky,” 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 I can’t pass for a teenage girl unless that school’s running an extremely inclusive admissions policy.”

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

“Thanks, Blondie.”

“Anytime.”

Dick shifts in his seat, visibly calculating. He half-raises a 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 shrugs, sheepish. “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. “The school doesn’t hire male faculty under twenty-five. Strict policy. No male students either. 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. “What about B? I’d pay 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 brightly. “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 smirks. “Can I pick the outfit?”

“Absolutely not,” Tim snaps.

“You’ll be Morgan Clarke,” Stephanie says brightly, pulling up a tablet. “Your dad’s an international businessman. Your mom’s in Milan designing handbags. You just transferred from a French boarding school.”

“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 puts his head in his hands.

Cassandra leans in, almost kindly. “You’ll be pretty.”

“I hate this mission,” Tim mutters into his palms.

“Try not to embarrass the family name, Drake,” Damian says dryly.

Tim lets out a breath. He’s definitely going to regret this.

__________________

The next morning is, without exaggeration, hell .

Tim got maybe three hours of sleep, two of those spent half-heartedly practicing walking in a straighter line 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 betrayal, 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 his own reflection morph from ‘sleep-deprived cryptid’ to ‘teenage transfer from France.’

“You squirm more than Jason during an ethics lecture,” Stephanie mutters, tucking another curl behind his ear.

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

Cassandra, perched silently on the dresser, sifts through Stephanie’s makeup bag like it’s a dissection tray. Her gaze is sharp. “Mascara or lashes?”

“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. “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. White blouse tucked neatly in. Navy cardigan buttoned halfway. Knee-high socks, shiny black loafers. Wig falling in soft waves past his shoulders, feeling suspiciously realistic. The glasses balance delicately on his nose, non-prescription. His skin looks even. Lips pink. Lashes curled.

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 chokes on air trying not to laugh. “No, no, it’s… it’s nice. You look great. Really.”

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 like the kind of girl who runs ASB, volunteers at the animal shelter, and accidentally has a secret fan club.”

“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 seat. “Okay, that was… kind of scary.”

Jason stares at him like he just turned into a ghost. “Jesus. You sound like the lead in one of those indie coming-of-age movies that ends with a soft piano song and emotional closure.”

Cassandra nods thoughtfully. “You’ll blend.”

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

“Sorry,” Stephanie says, spinning the tablet toward him. “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 peasy.

Alfred glances at him. “Master Tim,” he says gently. “Be careful.”

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

He opens the door and steps out.

The cold air bites at his legs. Students swarm the stone steps, clustering into tight little groups, already laughing, whispering, rushing to get inside. Nobody notices 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?” Tim mutters under his breath.

“Clear.” Her voice is steady, calm. A comfort.

The lobby of the school is aggressively pristine, all archways and marble floors, and smell of citrus disinfectant that tries and fails to hide the money in the air. The front desk receptionist doesn’t even blink.

“You must be Morgan Clarke,” she says, smiling like it’s in her contract.

Tim nods, soft and airy. “Yes, ma’am.”

She hands him a schedule he already has memorized down to the room dimensions. “First period’s History, room 2B. Welcome to Westbridge.”

He flashes her a too-big smile. “Thank you.”

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

Tim walks down the hall like he belongs, casual and harmless, like he doesn’t know how to disable surveillance systems with a phone charger and a hairpin.

He reaches room 2B and pauses. Breathes. Knocks twice.

The door swings open.

Levi Everett. Tall. Clean-shaven. Button-down shirt just tight enough at the sleeves to scream calculated effort. He smells like sandalwood and a trust fund. Glasses that probably don’t even have lenses in them.

“You must be Morgan Clarke,” he says, and smiles like he’s practiced it in a mirror.

“That’s me.” Tim says in his sweet, floaty voice.

Everett gestures at him to come inside. Twenty-five heads swivel. Pencils hover mid-air. Glossy lips part.

The classroom looks like the backdrop of an overpriced skincare ad. White walls. Cream-colored desks. Girls with matching manicures and eyes that rake across him in silent evaluation.

“This is Morgan,” Everett says, gesturing to him with a too-bright smile. “She transferred in from France. Let’s give her a warm welcome.”

A smattering of half-hearted “hi”s and “welcome”s echo around the room. 

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

Madison, he guesses, is the one with the fluffy curls and a seat to his right. She’s already giving him a once-over. Tim nods and moves down the aisle, careful to keep his steps light and natural. Not too stiff, not too confident. Just believable.

Everett’s eyes linger. Too long.

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

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

Tim slides into the seat and pulls out a notebook. He doesn’t look at Everett again. He’s just a student. Just a face in the crowd. He doesn’t flinch when the blonde girl beside him leans in.

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

He smiles with just the right amount of awkwardness a new student would have. “Yeah. Just got in last night. Kinda nervous.”

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

Tim doesn’t intend to.

“You’ll be fine,” Madison says, still smiling. “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 glances down. Blue glitter polish.

“Your nails are really nice,” he says.

Madison beams. “Thanks. My cousin does them. She’s in beauty school.”

“Boom. Friendship initiated,” Duke mutters. “Nice work.”

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

Tim lets his gaze drift to the schedule in his lap, like he’s just checking his classes. The plan is straightforward: survive until lunch, sneak into the teacher’s lounge, get Everett’s flash drive, upload it back to the Cave, and leave like he was never there.

Routine stuff.

Except the total lack of weapons.

The bell rings. Class begins.

Tim settles in. Sits straighter. His hand moves automatically when Everett starts lecturing. He answers a question when called on and keeps his tone light. Easy.

He doesn’t flinch when Madison passes him a piece of candy with a wink.

“Doing good, Timbit.” Jason says from somewhere across the city, voice low in his comm. “Just don’t fall in love with any of your classmates. Or trip on your shoes.”

Tim resists the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he leans back in his chair, crosses one leg over the other, 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 talks about history with zero passion and the most entertaining thing that happens is a “quiz” that’s more about how to fill in a Scantron bubble than actual knowledge. Tim finishes in under three minutes, but adds two more to make it look believable.

Smart, but not suspiciously smart. Normal smart.

“Doing good, Tim,” Barbara says in his comm. “He hasn’t looked at you twice.”

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

Tim flicks his gaze forward, slow and subtle. Everett is hunched over his desk, one hand holding a pen, the other twitching towards his black satchel.

When the bell rings, Tim moves with the crowd. Easy pace. Shoulders slightly hunched like the bag’s heavier than it is. Students jostle around him, earbuds in, phones out, half-awake and half-bored. He blends in so cleanly it’s almost too easy.

Second period is put on autopilot. The building is easy to map out in his head now, where the stairwells feed into the main quad, how the halls bottleneck during passing, where security cameras cover the gaps. Tim concludes that the drive is most likely in his bag, always within arm’s reach. Not in a drawer. Not in a desk.

He’s too careful.

Too aware.

When the bell rings for break, Tim starts to head for the end of the hall when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Morgan!”

Tim turns, smooth and slow.

Madison waves him over, flanked by a cluster of girls by the lockers. There’s an energy to them, polished, untouchable, steeped in subtle hierarchy. Matcha lattes. Knee-high socks. Glitter lip gloss and half-lidded stares.

A social battlefield. Great.

“Go,” Stephanie says in his ear, 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 adjusts his strap and walks over, posture just loose enough to look unpracticed.

“Hey,” he says, offering a soft smile like it doesn’t feel like his face is glued on.

“This is Morgan,” Madison says. “She transferred here from France.”

“Wait, like actually France?” one girl asks. Clip in her hair. Flawless eyeliner. 

“Boarding school,” Tim answers, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. “Near Lyon.”

“Ooh. Fancy.”

“What was it like?”

Tim gives a small shrug. “Strict. Cold. The food was better, though.”

“Ugh, jealous.”

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

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

Tim hesitates just the right amount. “My parents’ jobs. We move around a lot.”

That earns a round of sympathetic nods and a chorus of “Yeah, been there.”

“Wow,” Duke murmurs in his comm. “You’re, like, 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, laughing politely at something Madison says. The girls ramble about homework, hookups, and hallway gossip. Someone offers him lip balm. He smiles and declines. Polite and harmless, just as he practiced

Then, casually, he leans back against the lockers. “So... what’s the deal with the teachers here? They chill, or, like… academic overlords?”

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

“And Mrs. Calder stole someone’s AirPods once,” Avery mutters.

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

Tim’s pulse doesn’t change. But he sharpens slightly.

“Weird how?”

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

“He asked me about my siblings,” another girl adds. “Then followed up with like, ‘Are they older? Still at home? Are you close?’ Who cares?”

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

“Keep them talking,” Bruce says.

Tim feigns a thoughtful look. “Sounds like he’s trying to write a Netflix docuseries.”

That gets a few laughs. Tension breaks.

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

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

Tim leans forward, elbows on thighs, voice still soft. “So does he, like… hang out somewhere specific during lunch? Office, lounge?”

The girls trade looks.

“Staff lounge, I think,” Olivia says. “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 says. “Like paranoid-twitchy.”

“Leaves class immediately after the bell,” another girl adds. “Never talks to anyone after. Just grabs his bag and bounces.”

“Suspicious,” Cassandra says. “Too controlled.”

“Probably because of the drive,” Duke agrees.

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 lunch period.

“Hey,” Madison says, squinting at him, “why are you asking so many questions about him?”

Tim’s brain stutters for a half-second.

“Uh—sorry.” He gives a sheepish 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, groaning. “My last chem teacher was fired cause he kept touching people’s heads.”

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

Tim smiles. “Definitely not denying that.”

“Two minutes,” Stephanie says in his ear. “Bell’s about to ring.”

He keeps that in mind but laughs again at whatever Madison says. When the bell rings, he moves with the others, trying to be natural. Just another student blending in. Just another fake life for a real mission.

But he can feel it now, like a current running through the building. Levi Everett is more than a creep with a satchel.

He’s 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. 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 ticks through the floor plan, visualizing angles, blind spots, nearest exits. It’s almost comforting how automatic it is. Everything else fades out until it’s just the mission, just the objective and then suddenly someone’s in front of him.

“Whoa,” the guy says, catching Tim by the shoulders before he can stumble back. “Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t see you there.”

His hands linger for a fraction of a second too long. Just enough to set every alarm in Tim’s body on edge. He steps back fast, drawing himself inward, letting his expression smooth into something mild and unthreatening. A little startled, a little apologetic. Nothing to see here.

“Oh,” Tim says, voice soft, pitched light. “No worries. I wasn’t watching where I was going either.”

His tone is airy like someone who’s used to apologizing even when it isn’t their fault. It sounds feminine enough to pass. Unremarkable. A voice meant to disappear into a crowd.

The man smiles wider, lips pulling like he’s in on some shared joke. Late twenties, maybe. A little too polished. Hair slicked back like he watched one too many Jordan Peterson reels. Shirt sleeves rolled up, lanyard swinging. He looks like the kind of guy who calls himself a feminist and still talks over women.

Tim’s eyes flick down to his lanyard: Mark Jenson — Teaching Assistant.

His eyes drop. Just a flicker but it’s there.

Tim doesn’t need to look down to know what he’s seeing. The loose cardigan. The pleated skirt. The high socks. He can feel the guy scanning it, taking inventory. Then Mark’s eyes snap back up, quick and innocent like he didn’t just catalog Tim like a page in a magazine.

But Tim saw it. He always sees it.

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

Tim straightens slightly. Fixes his posture. His skin feels too tight. “Uh… yeah.” He forces his voice into something polite, something neutral. “I’m Morgan Clarke. Nice to meet you, Mr. Jenson.”

“Welcome to Westbridge,” Mark says, leaning one shoulder against the lockers like this is some Netflix hallway meet-cute instead of a low-grade horror movie. “We don’t get many new faces here. Especially not ones this pretty.”

Tim’s stomach clenches. The words hit like a cold drop down his spine. His mouth remembers to smile, but his fingers twitch at his sides, curling in just slightly. His knuckles brush the hem of his skirt. A steadying point.

“Thanks,” Tim says quietly. He even laughs—just a breathy, self-conscious exhale. 

Stay in character. Keep it soft. Keep it simple. Don’t escalate.

“Creep alert,” Stephanie hisses in his ear, low and furious. “That’s a full-body violation.”

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

Damian scoffs. “He reeks of weak-willed sycophant.”

Tim straightens his spine. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t show it. But every instinct he has is already cataloguing exits, potential witnesses, pressure points.

“So,” Mark continues, voice casual, “you’re a student or…?”

Tim tilts his head like it’s a dumb question. “Yeah.” Then, when that lands a little too blunt, he softens it with, “Kind of figured the uniform gave it away.”

Mark laughs, too loud, too easy. He nudges Tim lightly with his elbow. “Fair. No offense, just—you’ve got kind of a poised vibe, y’know? Like you’re older.”

Jesus.

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

Tim nods like he cares. “Cool. I’m just running something to the teacher’s lounge for Mr. Everett. He asked me to drop it off.”

Mark grins, stepping half into Tim’s path. “Already doing favors? Overachiever.” He winks. “I like that. Want me to show you the way?”

Tim forces his smile to stay. “No, thanks,” he says, polite but firm. “I’ve got it.”

Mark doesn’t move. “C’mon. It’s your first day, right? Don’t be shy. I’ll show you a shortcut.”

Tim’s jaw clenches slightly. He shifts his bag forward on his shoulder like a barrier, feet angling away from Mark.

His comm buzzes.

“Tim,” Stephanie says, voice tight, “you good?”

“I’m fine,” Tim answers aloud, calm and breezy. Aimed at Mark. Aimed at them. 

Everyone stand down.

Tim’s smile hardens. Just a hair too sharp. “I really need to get going,” he says—firm this time. No tilt. No charm. Just done.

He gestures down the hall, already moving.

Mark finally— finally —lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, Morgan. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Tim fakes one last smile. Just the corners of his mouth. No warmth. Then he turns and walks. He doesn’t look back. Only when the hallway bends out of sight does he let the smile fall. His shoulders go stiff. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenched tight.

“Gross,” Stephanie says. “I’m filing a report. Don’t stop me.”

“We should break his kneecaps,” Jason says cheerfully. “Educational purposes of course.”

Tim agrees. But not now.

“Babs,” he mutters. “Where do I go?”

Barbara’s voice answers, calm and precise. “Take a left, then second door on your right. That’s the teacher’s lounge. Cameras show it’s clear right now.”

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. Fingers poised. He punches in the code with precise, practiced rhythm. The lock clicks, unnoticeable in the busy hallway, and the door creaks open to a stale waft of burnt coffee and disinfectant.

He slips inside, closing the door softly behind him. The silence that follows is almost suffocating.

There’s no time to waste.

He moves quickly, scanning the room. Desks cluttered with papers, empty coffee mugs, a whiteboard with someone’s half-erased passive-aggressive note about “cleaning out the fridge.” But then—there. Back corner, on the far desk, like a beacon.

A worn black satchel, the leather faded at the edges. LE faintly embossed on the flap.

“Found his bag,” Tim mutters, barely above a whisper.

“Copy that,” Duke responds, calm and solid from the cave. “Extraction team’s standing by.”

Tim slides the satchel onto the counter with care, hands steady despite the tension running through his arms like wire. From his own backpack, he pulls out a sleek, matte-black gadget, custom-built for fast, discreet data extraction. The kind of tool no normal high schooler should have.

“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 calmly in his ear.

Tim shifts, pacing tight little loops in the space. His shoulders are tense. Every second ticks like a threat.

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

But then a burst of static, followed by Dick’s voice, 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. “He said he forgot his lunch in his bag. I stalled as long as I could, but it was getting suspicious how hard I was hounding him over food.”

Tim’s hand dives into the satchel. Empty save for files, pens, and the drive.

No lunch. No wrappers. Nothing.

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

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

Tim’s stomach twists. He doesn’t have twenty seconds.

“Progress report.” he demands, already moving to return the satchel to its original position.

“Thirty-six percent,” Damian replies coolly.

Shit.

Tim grits his teeth. He tightens his grip around the connected drive as he shoves it into his own bag, fixing the satchel to its original position. “Keep me updated. 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 inside, brows raised in surprise.

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 slightly as he folds his arms. Suspicion flickers in his eyes. “Morgan Clarke, right. I remember. You should be in the front office for schedule mix-ups.”

“I did.” Tim says, 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 not clenching it. He keeps smiling. “Would you mind helping me? Just really quick?”

Everett studies him a second longer, then sighs. “What do you need help with?”

Tim steps a bit to the left, casually blocking the satchel with his body. “Just figuring out where I’m supposed to go next. My third period was wrong as well but Mr. Davis managed to help me before class started. He was the one who directed me to the office who directed me here.”

Everett raises an eyebrow, but his arms drop. “Fair enough. Not the first kid to get shuffled around.”

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

“Fifty-three percent,” Damian reports.

Everett chuckles dryly. “All the time. Part of the charm of public education.”

Tim laughs once, believable enough. “Just my luck. On my first day too.”

“Come with me. I’ll check for you.” Everett turns and gestures to the old computer at the front of the lounge.

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.”

“So,” Tim says lightly, “what’s it like teaching here?”

Everett shrugs. “Depends on the class.”

“Do you have a favorite era?”

“I stick to early American, mostly.”

Tim nods, glancing at the screen. “Nice. I was always more of a tech kid, but I like the idea of history being stories people actually lived.”

“Seventy percent.”

“That’s a nice way to think of it.” Everett slides into the chair and starts typing. “Here we go. Looks like you’ve got math with Mrs. Perry next.”

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

Everett smirks, attention still on the screen. “It’s a challenge.”

“Mind if I take a photo of the schedule?” Tim asks, keeping his voice casual, just a student trying to keep track.

“Go ahead.”

“Eighty percent.”

Tim nods and reaches into his bag. He digs into his bag, not obviously, but just enough to stall, his fingers brushing past books and pouches. The seconds stretch thin as thread. 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, pasting on a grateful smile. “I’d probably be late otherwise and, you know… not really a good look for 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 finally, still not quite meeting Tim’s gaze. “Wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Ninety percent,” Damian whispers again, almost exactly overlapping Everett’s words.

Tim’s brain is screaming. He doesn’t let it show.

He shifts just slightly, casually reorienting himself to stay between Everett and the satchel like it’s no big deal. Like he’s just adjusting his weight. “I’ll head out now,” Tim says, voice light. 

He starts fiddling with his bag strap, deliberately slow, trying to eat at the time. “You said Mrs. Perry teaches math, right? Anything I should know? Surprise pop quizzes? Strict seating charts? Any way I can get on her good side?”

Everett’s brow lifts. Annoyance creeps in at the edges of his expression, but he plays along. “Not really. Just don’t sit in the back row. She hates it.”

“Ninety-five.”

Almost there. Come on. Come on.

Tim gives a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “Front and center it is. Got it. And she’s the kind who notices if you don’t bring a calculator?”

“You’ll survive.” Everett says shortly,  “Anything else?”

He pretends to think, trying to waste time down to the second.

“Not really. I really appreciate you helping me out though,” he says, straightening. “First days suck, even without the tech issues.”

“Hey, any time.” Everett’s tone is friendlier now, but his eyes narrow again, this time at the shifting weight of Tim’s backpack. Calculating.

Tim adjusts the strap like it’s nothing. “Right. I should really get going.”

“Ninety-eight,” Damian mutters.

Tim’s lungs feel tight. So close.

He pulls out his phone again with a small frown. “Wait—can I just double-check the room number again? I think I blinked and missed it.”

Everett sighs, spinning 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.

He slides his phone into his bag in the same movement he uses to retrieve Everett’s drive. The metal is cool against his palm. 

Got it.

He drops it into the satchel silently. “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 stiffens. His spine locks, muscles wound tight under the fabric of his uniform. His hand lingers on the door handle, every nerve screaming run .

Behind him, Everett steps closer. One foot, then another. Slow. Purposeful.

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

Tim turns, a tight smile already in place, every movement rehearsed, practiced.

“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. Not really. 

“You looked nervous when I came in,” he says, stepping in again, tone dropping low and deliberate. “Real nervous. Like you weren’t supposed to be in here.”

Tim’s brain runs a dozen calculations in a second. He shifts toward the door, trying to ease backward with a sheepish shrug. “Yeah, 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 and grabs Tim’s wrist.

Hard.

The pressure is sudden. Sharp. Controlled.

Tim goes still.

Everything inside him quiets, locks into focus. Everett’s fingers dig into his arm. His smile is gone now, stripped away like paint under a blade.

“What were you doing with my bag?” Everett snarls, voice dropped into something low and venomous. “You looking for something?”

Tim doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. His eyes flick once to the door. Too far. Everett’s body blocks most of the space between. He’d have to push past him. Make it fast, clean.

“Tim.” 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 run, but Everett lashes out, fingers clamping around Tim’s ankle. He crashes to the floor, the impact rattling through his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“Tim?!” Stephanie’s voice surges through the comm, sharp and scared. “Are you okay?”

He has no time to respond.

Everett’s on him instantly, weight crushing down, forearm braced across his chest like a steel bar. Tim struggles, teeth gritted, gasping for air.

“What did you do?!” Everett’s voice is wild now, spitting rage. “What did you take ?!”

Tim thrashes beneath Everett, lungs seizing from the impact. “Get off —!”

But Everett only bears down harder, weight pressing like a cinderblock to Tim’s chest.

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

His fingers fumble against his jacket—shaking, 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—?! ” he howls, arms reaching up to claw at his face. 

Tim gasps for air, coughing as the crushing pressure on his chest finally lifts. Everett’s eyes blaze red, tears streaking down his face as he staggers blindly, disoriented and in pain.

Tim doesn’t wait.

He kicks out, boot slamming into Everett’s ribs with a heavy thud . Everett crumples sideways, choking on curses. Tim scrambles upright, chest heaving, adrenaline screaming through his veins. He snatches his bag off the floor in one fluid motion.

Then he runs.

No hesitation, no looking back. Just pure, instinctive flight.

Tim grabs his pack in a single, fluid motion. The door to the lounge bursts open with a bang as he launches into the corridor like a bullet. His feet pound against the floor, every step is pure instinct layered over muscle memory, years of training firing on all cylinders.

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

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

Tim darts into the wave of students flooding the hallway, his shoulder clipping someone’s backpack. Heads whip around. Someone yells. Another stumbles. It’s chaos.

Behind him, Everett roars, voice twisted with rage, “Stop her!”

The shout ricochets through the hall like a detonated flare. Immediate. Loud. Commanding.

A teacher steps out of a classroom just ahead, hand raised like she actually thinks she can stop him. “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 good?!”

“Fine!” he groans, scrambling to his feet. “Fuckass shoe.”

He doesn’t stop to grab it. No time. 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. “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.

Security shouts echo behind him, closer now. Boots pounding. Radios blaring.

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!”

The engine growls like a beast set loose. Tires squeal and they tear down the street in a trail of smoke and shouted curses. Students scatter. One kid screams. Another cheers.

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

Tim breathes hard. “Yeah.”

“Status?” Bruce’s voice slices into the channel, sharp and low. “Tim. Are you alright?”

Tim exhales, steady now. “Fine. Please tell me you have the drive.”

“We got it,” Duke confirms. 

“Nice work,” Cassandra says gently. “You did well.”

Jason lets out a loud, delighted bark of a laugh. “Well? The kid pepper-sprayed a teacher and outran three floors of security! He’s a menace!”

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

He slumps forward a little, chest still heaving, muscles tight. His heart won’t settle but the panic is gone.

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, 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 says, utterly unbothered as she tosses a tablet into his lap.

Tim glares at it like it just insulted his family.

"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’s 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,” says Duke. “We’re underselling it.”

“Steph, play the clip again,” Jason says, flopping into a chair like he’s settling in for a movie marathon.

“No,” Tim groans. “Please. For the love of God—”

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 him!” 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 in his throat, backpack half-zipped, one shoe missing, and security on his ass. But in the video?

It looks like a goddamn perfume commercial.

His hair (wig) catches the breeze just right, lips parted like he’s about to whisper a secret, that stupid oversized cardigan billowing behind him like a cape. The sun flares dramatically as he crosses into the light. Somewhere in the background, a girl says, “Holy shit, she’s gorgeous.”

Jason snorts so hard he almost drops his cup.

Tim stares at the screen, horrified. “I looked like that?”

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

“Or a Bridgerton spinoff,” Stephanie adds. “Very running-from-my-arranged-marriage energy.”

“Y’know,” Duke says, “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, scrolling. “I’ve seen three different fancams set to Lana Del Rey. Three. ”

“Four now,” Dick adds helpfully, strolling in, holding up his phone. “This one has sparkles edited onto your lashes.”

“Are those fake?” Duke squints at his phone.

“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. 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. “Okay, that’s disgusting.”

Duke’s grinning way too hard. “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, motorcycles and poetry I get, 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.”

Dick nods solemnly. “You’re the drama.”

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 points a thumb at him. “Ask Cinderella.”

Bruce sighs. “Just tell me no one knows it’s Tim at least.”

Barbara holds up a finger. “Surprisingly no.”

Jason leans against the wall, smug. “Hey, at least you’ve got options now. If vigilante work doesn’t pan out and you get fired as CEO, you can be a perfume model.”

Tim raises his head, quirking 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?”

“I merely said you were ethereal, not that I agreed with your fans.”

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 mutters. “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 cleaned up. Everett is behind bars for selling his students’ information to gangs, and the missing girls are finally safe—shaken but alive. It's a clean win, as far as Gotham gets them.

Tim should feel proud. Instead, he’s trying to ignore the constant stream of internet chaos surrounding Morgan Clarke . What started as a couple low quality videos has snowballed into fancams, conspiracy threads, fan art, and—god help him—romantic edits of 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 pulled low and soul halfway outside his body, when Stephanie, scrolling with dangerous intent, gasps.

“Oh my god, there’s fan art?!”

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

“I don’t.” Duke leans over, showing his phone screen. “Look, someone drew you and Jason riding off into the sunset. Your hair’s, like, sparkling.”

Jason squints. “Why am I holding a rose in my mouth?”

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

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

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

Tim side-eyes him. “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. “I was two seconds from pulling the fire alarm.”

“Cowards,” Damian huffs. “We should’ve evacuated 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?”