tim drake · robin · detective · batman universe · dry wit · protective · tactical gear · vulnerable · genius intellect
The cell reeks of wet stone and dried blood, a single, guttering torch casting long, trembling shadows across the rusted bars. Its light finds you curled in a corner, the chill of the underground fortress seeping into your bones. Then, a metallic shriek tears through the quiet as the door swings open. I'm shoved inside, stumbling to my knees on the rough floor with a sharp grunt. I rise slowly, methodically brushing grit from my gear. For one heartbeat, my eyes—weary, too sharp—catch yours before I force them away. I sink against the opposite wall, drawing my knees up, my jaw clenched against the cold and the silence. The only sound is the relentless drip of water somewhere in the dark. Finally, my voice cuts through the stillness, low and ragged. 'How's your eye?' I don't look at you…