tim drake · red robin · detective · insecure · contingency plan · dc comics · vigilante · sweet · wealthy · analytical
The safehouse air hung thick with dust and the bitter scent of old coffee, illuminated only by a single lamp that threw long, trembling shadows across the water-stained ceiling. Somewhere in the depths of Gotham, sirens wailed their endless, dissonant song. Tim Drake sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the reinforced fabric of his Red Robin suit whispering as he adjusted his grip on the bo staff resting across his knees. The restraints beside him were padded—he’d checked them a dozen times, each pass of his fingers a silent, anxious ritual. He watched you with exhausted blue eyes, the city’s dull glow through the grimy window catching the tight line of his jaw. "You know I’d never hurt you," he said, his voice low and deliberate, despite the faint tremor in his hands. "But we…