Chapter 96 : The Search
**Gotham City**
Robin crouched on a rusted fire escape, cape drawn tight against the cold. Below him, the Narrows stretched out in all its miserable glory—cracked pavement, flickering streetlights, walls painted with old graffiti. A couple of stragglers moved through the shadows, heads down, like they didn't want to be noticed.
His comm crackled to life.
"Master Tim, I have something," Alfred's voice came through clear. "Facial recognition caught a match on a traffic camera approximately twelve minutes ago. Cornelius Stirk, heading east on Grundy Street."
Robin's posture straightened immediately. The waiting was over. "Send me the coordinates."
"Transmitting now. The system tracked him for three blocks before losing visual near the old industrial sector. Based on his trajectory and the time elapsed, I've calculated a probable search radius." A map overlay appeared on Robin's HUD, highlighting a six-block area. "The area is largely abandoned—warehouses, closed factories and residential buildings."
"Perfect place to set up," Robin muttered, launching his grappling line. "How long ago did we lose him?"
"Eight minutes. He could be anywhere in that radius by now."
"Then I better move fast." Robin swung into motion, the city blurring past as he crossed rooftops with practiced efficiency. "Keep monitoring the cameras. If he so much as breathes near a camera, I want to know."
"Of course, sir. And Master Tim? Do be careful."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Robin landed on a rooftop overlooking the search radius. The place looked dead—just another graveyard of Gotham's past.
Robin began a systematic search, moving from building to building without wasting much time. First building—too exposed. Second—half the roof had caved in. Third—squatters had been there recently, too much noise and evidence of movement.
Stirk would want privacy and isolation. Somewhere he could work undisturbed.
The fourth building caught his attention.
It was a former textile factory, three stories of red brick with most of its windows intact but darkened. The entrance showed signs of recent use—fresh scratches on the lock and a path through the dust. But more tellingly, there was a faint glow visible through a crack in one of the ground-floor windows. Candlelight.
Robin approached carefully, testing each footstep for sound. He reached the window and peered through the gap.
Inside, he could see a large open space that had once been the factory floor. Most of the machinery had been removed, leaving an emptiness.
But in the center of the space, visible in the dim light filtering from a back room, were chains mounted to support pillars. Recently installed, based on the fresh bolt holes in the concrete.
A preparation site. Stirk's workshop.
Robin circled around, found a service door, and picked the lock in under thirty seconds. He slipped inside, every sense alert.
Inside, the air was thick with mildew and something worse—an iron tang that clung to the back of his throat.
Robin moved through the shadows noting everything. The chains were heavy-duty, meant to hold struggling victims. And arranged on a nearby table were boxes of candles—new, still in their packaging from a local dollar store.
The murder kit. Everything Stirk needed for his ritualistic kills.
But no sign of Stirk. No victim.
He must have stepped out, Robin thought, moving deeper into the building. Which means he'll be back soon.
He continued his reconnaissance, checking all the rooms one by one .
A small office had been turned into living quarters—sleeping bag, scattered clothes, medication bottles still full. So he'd stopped taking them. That explained a lot.
Beyond that was a small kitchenette with a hot plate.
Something was cooking.
Robin approached the hot plate cautiously. A pot sat on the burner, steam rising from whatever simmered inside. It smelled liked a chicken stew.
Robin frowned and lifted the lid carefully with a nearby fork.
Broth bubbled around a mass of tissue suspended in the liquid. It took Robin's detective-trained mind only a second to recognize what he was seeing—the general shape, the chambers, the arterial connections still partially intact despite the cooking.
A human heart.
Robin's stomach turned. He'd seen plenty of horrors in his time as Robin, but there was something particularly grotesque about seeing an organ treated like food, simmering in a pot like some nightmare recipe.
He used the ladle to shift it slightly, confirming what he already knew. This was likely Dr. Helena's heart. Stirk had kept it. And now he was cooking it.
Robin carefully replaced the lid and his mind was racing now. Stirk was definitely using this location. The question was when he'd—
Footsteps.
Heavy, dragging. Coming from the front entrance.
Robin moved immediately, extinguishing his penlight and pressing himself against the wall beside the doorway leading back to the main factory floor. His hand went to his bo staff, extending it with a soft click.
The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by a second sound—something being dragged across concrete. A body.
Through the doorway, Robin could see Cornelius Stirk emerge into the main factory floor. He was exactly as his mugshot showed—gaunt, pale and those unsettling gray eyes.
He was dragging an unconscious man by the arms. The victim was maybe forty, dressed in a security guard uniform, a growing bruise on his temple suggesting how Stirk had incapacitated him.
Robin watched as Stirk positioned the man beneath the chains, then methodically began securing him—wrists first, then ankles, pulling the chains taut until the victim was suspended in a standing position, arms spread wide and completely helpless.
The guard's head lolled forward, still unconscious but breathing. For now.
Stirk stepped back, examining his work like an artist reviewing a canvas. Then he moved to the table with the candles and began opening boxes, humming tunelessly to himself as he arranged them in a circle pattern.
Robin calculated angles. Stirk was facing partially away, focused on his preparation ritual. If Robin moved now, came in fast and silent from behind, he could drop Stirk before the criminal could mount any kind of defense.
Robin watched from the shadows, tense but ready. Stirk was crouched close now, knife glinting in the candlelight as he leaned toward the guard. His free hand brushed the man's face almost tenderly, like he was about to wake him.
"Time to rise," Stirk whispered.
The blade tilted slightly as he spoke — and that was when it happened.
In the mirror-shine of the knife's surface, a faint movement flickered behind him. A shadow that didn't belong.
Robin.
Stirk froze mid-motion. His head tilted just a fraction, eyes flicking toward the reflection.
Then, under his breath, so quietly Robin couldn't hear, Stirk murmured, "Ah… I see you."
He smiled.
Robin slowly approached from behind, completely unaware that his cover was already gone.
And that was when Stirk turned around.
Only it wasn't Stirk standing there anymore.
It was Batman.
The cowl. The armor. The cold, commanding presence that could make even Gotham's worst hesitate. Every detail was flawless — from the way the cape draped to the exact shade of the armor plating.
"Tim," Batman's voice said, and it was exactly right—the growl, the tone, the disappointment underneath. "Stand down. I've got this."
Robin's conscious mind screamed that it was wrong—
But his body hesitated. Just for a split second. Just long enough to see Batman raise the gun—no, wait, Batman doesn't use guns, this is wrong—
The shot was deafening in the enclosed space.
Fire exploded in Robin's left thigh as the bullet tore through muscle. His leg buckled instantly, and just like that — Batman shattered.
Batman disappeared, replaced by Stirk's gaunt form standing there with the smoking gun.
"There it is," Stirk breathed, his pupils dilating as he visibly fed on Robin's spike of fear and pain. "That beautiful moment of confusion. Of betrayal. Oh, that's exquisite."
Robin tried to recover and bring his bo staff up despite the pain in his leg, but his wounded limb couldn't support his weight properly. He stumbled against the doorframe—
Stirk moved fast — impossibly fast for someone so gaunt — and swung the gun around, gripping it by the barrel.
The world flashed white as the butt connected with the back of Robin's skull. His bo staff clattered to the concrete floor and his legs gave out completely.
The last thing Tim Drake saw before darkness took him was Cornelius Stirk's face, those gray eyes gleaming with satisfaction and hunger.
Then nothing.
Note : Batman was taken out by Stirk the same way in the comics. My boy Tim has to suffer again for the plot.