The smell of old paper mixed with that cheap dorm disinfectant filled the little room while my pen moved across those thermodynamics equations. It was all so structured, so contained, so… predictable. Figuring out entropy felt a lot like Gotham University trying to pull the same old trick—a calm, safe kind of order. Outside, things were wild; chaos either wore clown makeup or just dripped with venom. Inside, I was busy calculating heat transfer rates. Bruce's cautious attitude influenced everything I did: intense training sessions instead of playing football, forensic books that practically served as instruction manuals. Jason's memory just hung there in that caution.
The hallway between classes hummed with students, their voices and footsteps all running together. Bruce would have scrutinized every single movement for potential threats. Me? I just saw her—Arianna Dzerchenko. I recognized her instantly. It felt like an electric shock. Darkseid's voice faintly whispered inside my head, low and dry: she was a loose end, a break. The whole timeline seemed to crack just a bit. Her being here, in this spot, wasn't by chance. My early days as Robin, Bruce's tighter grip… something had definitely gone wrong. Gotham University wasn't her place. Not now. Not ever. Yet, there she stood, clutching a book to her chest, her eyes glued to the floor as if that might make her disappear. The butterfly effect was definitely real. She mattered. And I needed to figure out why.
After Professor Chen wrapped up his slow-paced talk about quantum states, I followed her. Not to scare her, just to observe. She'd headed to a quiet corner near the old music rooms, half-hidden in the dimness. She looked like someone who preferred watching others instead of being watched herself. Gotham churned out people like that—those who showed they could hack it and those who kept quiet about it. Arianna kept quiet.
"Calculus III giving you a hard time too?" I asked. My voice sounded easygoing. She flinched a little, her fingers tightening on her book. She was careful. Good.
"Partial derivatives," she said softly. "They're tough to picture."
"Kind of like Gotham's zoning laws, right?" I leaned against the wall. "It's easier if you think of them in layers. Here—" I ripped a sheet from my pad and just drew three lines. "It's like city planning. You've got height, density, decay. Each one messes with the others." My pen wasn't sketching equations; it was sketching Gotham itself—the Narrows, the Diamond District, those Arkham towers. "Miss one thing, and the whole darn thing falls apart."
She looked from the page up to me, her eyes thoughtful. "You see math like it's architecture?"
"Everything's architecture. Otherwise, it just crumbles." I pointed at Wayne Tower on the drawing. "Bruce Wayne backs most of these places. He knows where they're weakest." I said it that way on purpose.
Her shoulders relaxed a little. "You're Tim. Tim Drake?"
"Yep. And you're Arianna." I didn't bother pretending I didn't know. Instead, I just watched her—the quick dart of her eyes, her hands loosening their grip around the book. I had my starting point.
By evening, we had a nice, easy rhythm going—clean, calm. We swapped notes on Fourier transforms, joked about how useless campus security was near the east gate. When she laughed, it came out small and truly honest. Friendship just made sense. It was useful. No sparks, no yearning. That Tim Drake was long gone, the one from before Darkseid and I shared this body. Arianna Dzerchenko wasn't romance. She was a sign. A fault line in time. When she asked if I wanted to meet her uncle, I said yes.
"Vari," she said softly as we walked up to the brownstone in Old Gotham. "He's… a bit protective."
"Protective" was putting it mildly. Vari Dzerchenko filled the doorway, broad and as still as a statue, his stance practically claiming all the space like he owned the ground beneath it. His eyes swept over me, sharp and careful, like he could tell what I was made of just by looking. I could practically hear Darkseid's dry murmur in my head: he was the anchor, the chain.
"Tim Drake," I said, extending my hand. I made my grip firm but not overly aggressive. "Arianna told me about your work with antique clocks."
Vari's grip could have shattered glass. "Clocks need precision," he said in his thick accent. "Respect for time. For tradition." His eyes stayed fixed on how I stood, as if my posture spoke louder than words. "You study engineering, yes?"
"I have a real passion for structure," I said, stepping inside. The air smelled of beeswax and strong tobacco. "How pressure moves through systems. How things manage to hold together."
The apartment was neat and precise, all shiny wood and polished brass. Family photos lined the walls, each one perfectly arranged. Vari directed me to a leather chair across from his. Arianna slipped into the kitchen, leaving us alone with just the sound of our own breathing.
"You know Gotham," Vari said, not really asking a question. He struck a match and lit a cigarette. The flame showed a rough scar across his knuckles. "You know its shadows."
"I map them," I replied. "Every alley has its weak point. Every system does."
"Vulnerabilities attract predators." He blew out smoke in a slow, steady stream. "Men who exploit weakness."
"Only if they can predict it," I said, leaning forward carefully, making sure not to challenge him. "Chaos doesn't sit still long enough to be used."
His eyes narrowed a bit. He was curious now. Arianna came back with tea, the cups clinking on the tray. He didn't even glance away from me. "You sound like a soldier."
"An engineer," I corrected, taking a sip. Steam rose between us. "The way things are shaped dictates what they become. Fix one flaw, and you prevent the whole thing from falling apart."
For a little while, no one spoke. Arianna looked back and forth between us, a bit uneasy. Then Vari's shoulders relaxed just a fraction. "You see systems," he observed.
"I see where they break," I said. "And how to stop it."
We chatted more easily after that—about engineering, about weight and strain, and the headache of fixing an old clock from the 1800s. "The problem is in the escapement," Vari said, almost sounding pleased. With every word, his suspicion faded bit by bit. He stopped looking for danger and started looking for common sense. By our third cup of tea, he was talking about Gotham's gangs—Maroni's borders, Penguin's trade routes—not as threats, but as working parts of a system that needed managing.
"If trouble comes for Arianna," Vari finally said, setting down his cup, "you come to me. Not the police. Not heroes. Me."
"The system's got its flaws," I said. "But you can still make it stronger."
He looked at me for a long time, then nodded once. "You are efficient," he said.
"I keep things simple."
Arianna walked me out later, the autumn wind whipping through Gotham's narrow streets. "He liked you," she said, her voice soft with surprise.
"He appreciates things being predictable," I said, stopping under a flickering streetlamp. The bulb buzzed faintly, like a tiny bug caught inside.
She hugged me without warning. It was quick and warm, something truly real in the cold air. "Be careful, Tim."
Sentiment, I thought. That's a tough one to measure. "Always."
Wayne Manor stood high above the cliffs, enormous and quiet, like some ancient stone creature. Alfred met me in the front hall, as calm and steady as ever. "Welcome home, Master Timothy. Dinner's ready." His sharp eyes took in everything—the way my jacket sat, the tension in my shoulders. "Master Bruce is waiting downstairs, but food first."
Dinner was roast pheasant with truffled potatoes and neat rows of asparagus. It was fuel, not something comforting. Every bite was meant to balance the numbers—calories, protein, a good mix. Alfred's quiet comments ("The pheasant could use a bit more conviction tonight, I'm afraid") ran underneath my own thoughts: Vari's scarred hands—was that from a knife or an accident? The rifle by the umbrella stand—was it legal or had it been messed with? Arianna's little pause when she mentioned her mother was from near Pripyat. All details. All variables.
The Batcave waited with its usual low hum—machines whirring, water dripping somewhere deep down. Bruce stood at the main console without his mask, the red glow from Gotham's map painting his face. He looked ready to spring into action, like a tightly wound coil.
"We're heading to Russia," he stated. His tone left no room for disagreement. The map shifted east across the globe until it landed on a desolate ruin marked with: Припять / Pripyat. Chernobyl.
It was late afternoon when my thoughts turned again—from Arianna's uncle, Vari Dzerchenko: stern, traditional, fiercely protective. Everything he owned was Russian, and his voice got thicker when he talked about the past. Arianna had looked away when she brought up her mother. The quiet comfort of everyday life just vanished. Something much bigger took its place.
"Why?" I asked, stepping close enough to see the red dots scattered across Ukraine and Poland. Assassinations. Each death was careful, exact, and timed perfectly with elections or treaty votes.
"A man known only as Зверь," Bruce said. "The Beast. He's taking out anyone who gets in the way of Russia's plans." He brought up Gordon's encrypted notes: photos of bodies found frozen in fields, politicians, activists—all with a small mark behind the ear, like a claw. I knew that work. The KGBeast. "Gordon's contacts say he's getting bolder. NATO liaisons are next on his list. We need to stop him before these alliances fall apart."
I pointed at Pripyat. "Chernobyl? Why there?"
"His base," Bruce explained. "That exclusion zone gives him all the privacy he needs. Those radiation suits hide weapons." He paused and looked at me. "Honestly, I wasn't going to bring you."
The truth ran deep. Darkseid's voice whispered: *You are ready.* Bruce's caution after Jason's death was thick as smoke. He had kept me out of Gotham's worst alleys, away from knife fights and gunfire. Too slow. Too safe. Unfortunately for him, I'd gone beyond what he ever expected. The training, the missions—I'd compressed years into months, months into weeks.
"You're efficient," Bruce said softly, echoing Vari's words. "More than I ever planned." There was pride in his eyes, but also worry. He remembered Jason—his anger, his desperate urge to die. But this Robin was colder. Sharper. Not as eager to get hurt. "We leave tonight. Nine hours."
"The weather?" I asked, glancing at Chernobyl's broken reactors.
"Negative thirty Celsius. Heavy snow by morning." He shut down the map. "Pack for it."
Upstairs, Alfred was already laying out the gear: Kevlar-lined layers, arctic gauntlets, a cowl for the cold. "The Russian winter bites," he murmured as he folded the parka. "Much worse than Mr. Freeze's gadgets."
I packed quietly: weapons, tools, thermal clothes. Each item had its spot. Vari Dzerchenko's scarred hands came to mind—knife work, maybe. Or frostbite. The beast operated where ice froze blood really fast and steel just cracked.
Alfred slid the last case over. "Your passport, Master Timothy. And Mr. Wayne's itinerary."
"The cover story?" I asked, closing the pack.
"Wayne Enterprises' partnership with Belarusian timber syndicates." Alfred's smile was small and dry. "A convenient story indeed."
Outside, the wind pushed against the manor walls. Gotham's shadows seemed smaller now. Russia's cold waited beyond them, quiet and patient. I wasn't scared of it. I just measured it—just another hurdle. Another weak spot to conquer.
It was a drizzly evening in Gotham, and the streets were quiet as Alfred drove us through. The mist hung thick in the air, blurring the skyline into soft gray walls. The private jet sat at the edge of Gotham Airfield, sleek and dark under the bright floodlights. Bruce walked ahead without a word, his steps steady and sharp.
As I followed him up the ramp, the engines started with a deep, low hum. I felt something twist in my gut—guilt. I was leaving for days, maybe weeks. Arianna would go to class tomorrow and look for me. She wouldn't find me. Gotham was a place where people disappeared, and no one ever explained why.
She had just made her first friend—me—and now I was gone without saying anything. She'd wonder what happened. Was it her fault? Did she say something wrong? Was I dead? The thought felt heavy in my stomach. It just had to be this way. There was no way to tell her without putting her in danger. Gotham's creepers could sniff out secrets from miles away.
The jet lifted off through the damp clouds. The city below looked like a flickering board of lights, every single one marking some fault or failure. Bruce was already poring over his tablet, mapping a route into Russia's frozen heart. I leaned back and closed my eyes. The mission came first. Arianna would just have to wait.
Being Robin meant giving things up.
The engines got louder as we climbed higher over the Atlantic. Russia waited ahead—its cold, its harshness, its beast. No room for hesitation. Being effective demanded nothing less.