Chapter Text
Tim Drake had thought—naively, in retrospect—that by the tender age of seventeen, he had already seen the worst the world had to offer.
He’d survived apocalyptic invasions, watched friends die in his arms, fought off alien warlords, and pulled burn victims from crumbling buildings. He’d taken hits that still echoed in his bones on rainy nights. The faint line across his throat, a thin white scar, was proof that he wasn’t as invincible as he once believed. He’d bled, choked on the metallic taste of his own life draining through his fingers, and kept fighting anyway.
But the case Bruce had dropped on his lap made all of that feel… quaint.
He hadn’t seen horror. Not really. Not until now.
It was why he was crouched in a tree in the muggy Puerto Rican heat, sweat trickling down his spine beneath the cling of camouflage gear, the humid night air thick with the scent of wet earth and salt. Mosquitoes buzzed hungrily around him, ignored. His eyes, burning from hours of focus, stayed glued to the high-powered binoculars in his gloved hands as he scoped out the facility half-hidden beneath the tropical underbrush.
The trail had led him here—a forgotten compound tied to a dismantled government organization that was far from gone.
Officially, it had once been the Department of Extranormal Operations, or DEO. But it also answered to names like the Ghost Investigation Ward, or GIW, and functioned under the Department of Metahuman Affairs. Glossy titles for what had amounted to little more than government-sanctioned monsters.
They had captured, dissected, and discarded metahumans like lab rats. Stripped them of rights, names, and humanity in pursuit of a world without the "unnatural."
The League had thought they’d shut it down.
They’d been wrong.
All the League had managed to do was push the operation deeper into the shadows. Underground. Unregulated. Unwatched.
And Tim? Tim had jumped on the chance to follow their scent like a bloodhound. When Bruce had asked if he wanted to trace the trail and seize whatever intel they hadn’t buried, he didn’t hesitate.
He’d seen too much not to act. Greta—Dear God, Greta—was still haunted by what they’d done to her. Tim had nearly lost her to them once. He wasn’t going to let it happen to anyone else.
Not while he was still breathing.
Not on his watch.
A rustle of wind shivered through the leaves above him, and he ducked a little lower on the branch, adjusting the binoculars for focus. The facility was deceptively quiet, floodlights creating harsh shadows against cracked walls and rusting gates. On the surface, it looked like any old abandoned research center. But he’d intercepted encrypted communications—something was still active inside. Something ugly.
He tracked movement through the scope—two guards doing rounds along the inner perimeter. One had a limp. The other was trigger-happy, fingers twitching too often near his holster.
He narrowed his eyes. Overcompensating. Nervous. New hire, maybe. Or worse—someone who knew what was inside and was desperate to keep it there.
Tomorrow, Tim would be inside.
The ID badge he’d lifted belonged to someone close enough in build. A janitor, mid-twenties, brown-eyed. Nothing a little makeup, colored contacts, and careful lighting couldn’t cover. It wasn’t a perfect match, but it would hold long enough to slip in and gather intel. Copy hard drives. Plant surveillance. Maybe even find a survivor.
Assuming there were survivors.
He tried not to think about that. About the probability.
Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, calming the racing thoughts with habit-learned focus. One breath in. Hold. One breath out.
His comm crackled softly—just background interference. No one was on the other end. Bruce was offline. No backup. No team.
Just Tim, his rage, and his plan.
A drop of sweat slid down his temple. He didn’t bother wiping it away.
Tomorrow, he thought grimly, shifting slightly to relieve pressure on his ankle. I walk in smiling. I walk out with their sins in a folder.
He let the binoculars hang around his neck and leaned against the trunk, high in the branches like a silent wraith.
The jungle around him buzzed with life. Somewhere distant, a frog croaked. Closer, leaves rustled under something small and feathered. And far below, the ghosts of the compound's past sat heavy in the air.
He could almost feel it.
Not just the weight of history.
But the wrongness.
Like something dead had once lived there—and didn’t want to leave.
The next day, Tim approached the compound with his hat pulled low over his brow, casting a shadow across most of his face. The morning sun bore down mercilessly, turning the concrete paths sticky with heat, and sweat clung to the back of his neck beneath the standard-issue uniform. A name badge swung from his chest: Juan M. Ríos, a janitor recently cleared to return to work after medical leave. Tim had memorized every detail on the ID—birth date, address, even the name of Juan’s cat.
Let’s hope no one asks about the cat.
He held the ID card up to the entrance scanner, and the sleek black panel blinked to life with a quiet beep. A short hiss of hydraulics released the lock, and the heavy steel door slid open with a smoothness that prickled the back of Tim’s neck.
That’s not local tech. He made a mental note of it immediately. That level of precision engineering wasn’t common anywhere on the island—certainly not in the middle of a rural zone surrounded by dense forest and unreliable infrastructure.
That meant money. Funding. And not just from some leftover black-market budget. This was government-grade investment. Likely U.S. backed. Likely still active.
I’m definitely in the right place.
As he stepped inside, his eyes swept the area beneath the brim of his cap. Two guards to the left, leaned against a checkpoint station, laughing over something on a tablet. A bored receptionist chewing gum. A camera on each corner of the lobby ceiling. Tim clocked them all in less than five seconds.
Then, a voice called out from behind him.
“¡Juan! ¿Ya saliste de la clínica? ¿Al final qué fue, el COVID o dengue?”
Tim froze internally but didn’t let it show. Instead, he exhaled quietly through his nose and bent down like he was tying his shoe.
Right. Juan’s last sick leave. Good thing I read the report.
Adopting the nasal, slightly raspy tone he’d practiced all night, he called over his shoulder without looking up. “Al final fue COVID. La verdad que aún estoy malito, pero me dijeron que ya tengo que regresar al trabajo.”
“Tch, esos jefes gringos son unos malos,” the guard replied with a snort. “No importa, Juancito. Tú termina rápido la limpieza y fácil te dejan salir temprano.”
“¡Esa es la idea!” Tim stood and gave a casual wave without making eye contact, then strode deeper into the facility, his heart thudding a little faster than he liked. He didn’t look back.
Once out of sight, he allowed himself a slow breath.
That was too close. I’ll have to avoid that hallway on the way out.
The interior of the building was sterile, humming faintly with fluorescent lights. The walls were a dull gray-blue, lined with pipes and reinforced steel beams. Security cameras watched every hallway intersection, but none tracked movement. Old programming. Static surveillance. He filed it away for later.
Tim pushed his cleaning cart steadily down the hallway, rubber wheels squeaking faintly with every turn. The cart looked standard enough: mop, disinfectant, garbage bag, and a rusted bucket. But hidden beneath the black garbage liner were several shredded paper scraps, a small data drive tucked into a plastic sandwich bag, and a folder labeled “Non-Human Subject Retention Log”—half-crushed from being yanked out of a locked cabinet when no one was looking.
He’d been “cleaning” for less than two hours and already had more incriminating material than he’d expected. That was either a good sign or a very bad one.
The thing that always amazed him—if amazed was the right word—was how invisible cleaning staff became in places like this. He walked past a scientist arguing on the phone about containment breach protocols. Another sat slumped at a desk, going over files marked “Phase Transition - Experiment 003” with visible frustration. No one gave him a second glance.
People forget janitors hear everything, Tim thought grimly. They walk into rooms no one else can. And they’re never questioned when they walk out with a bag full of “garbage.”
He emptied a trash can into his cart, eyes flicking toward a discarded manila envelope jammed halfway under the desk. Its tab read: "Casper - Behavioral Logs."
He slid it out quickly, checked that no one was watching, and tucked it under the crumpled paper towels and lunch wrappers in his bag.
One more thing for the evidence pile.
His earpiece buzzed faintly once—just static. It was too deep underground for a stable signal, but the one-beep pulse was a confirmation from the remote relay he’d planted near the compound perimeter. The backup was still recording.
He kept moving.
Tomorrow, maybe, he’d report in. Maybe.
But for today, Tim Drake—the janitor, the shadow, the ghost in the system—kept sweeping.
And collecting the sins left behind.
The security office was colder than the rest of the facility—probably to keep the hardware from overheating—but it added to the sterile, hollow feeling that clung to the walls. Tim slipped inside with practiced ease, a swipe of Juan’s borrowed badge and a soft click of the lock disengaging beneath his fingers. No one noticed. No one ever did.
The room was dimly lit by the glow of multiple monitors stacked on metal shelves, each displaying grainy feeds of different hallways, labs, and restricted zones. Tim didn’t sit; he worked fast, fingers flying across the outdated interface to locate the central system. There was no AI, no voice interface—just old menus and physical toggles. Sloppy. But easy to manipulate.
Loop the feed. Use footage from yesterday. No irregularities. No reason to check it.
He mirrored the previous day’s recordings over the current timestamp, obscuring his own movements, and set the loop to start in twenty minutes—just enough time to finish and walk out like nothing had happened. Another mental note: Burn the uniform. Drop the badge off the pier.
He was already reaching for the flashdrive from his pocket, ready to dump the feed and leave, when something on one of the monitors caught his eye.
Sublevel Lab 4C.
The camera was angled slightly downward, focused on a large cylindrical tank near the center of the room. Inside, suspended in translucent blue fluid, floated a figure. A young man—or at least, something shaped like one. He wasn’t moving. Electrodes were attached to his temples and chest, and tubes snaked out of his arms like invasive vines. His skin looked pale beneath the fluid’s glow, and for a moment, Tim assumed he was dead.
Until the boy moved.
Barely. Subtly. Just enough to tilt his chin—and look directly into the camera.
Tim stopped breathing.
The gaze that met his was not a sleepy, dazed one. It wasn’t confused or drugged. It was aware. And worse—it was empty.
No. Not empty. Haunted.
Those eyes… he’d seen them before. On Greta, the first time she stepped out of her containment tank, legs trembling and breath hitching as if the air hurt. On Conner, after Cadmus, when Tim had caught him staring at a reflection he didn’t recognize. The same hollow ache. The same drowning silence in their expressions.
The tanked figure blinked slowly.
Tim’s pulse spiked.
I can’t leave him here.
Without thinking, he yanked the flashdrive from the port and shoved it back into his pocket. He closed the security loop with a few quick keystrokes, double-checked that the feeds were rerouted, and bolted for the door. He didn't bother closing it quietly this time.
He walked fast—just under a jog—as he moved through the hallway. His boots made soft, rhythmic taps on the floor, echoing a little too loudly in the silence. No one stopped him. No one even looked up.
Elevator. He needed the elevator.
He rounded the corner and reached the chrome doors, punching the call button hard enough to leave an imprint in his glove. The panel lit up with a soft ding, and the doors opened almost immediately. He stepped inside, heart thudding.
The inside of the elevator smelled like bleach and metal. A directory on the wall listed the floors, from Admin and Storage, all the way to the lower levels marked Research Sublevels A-D.
He pressed the badge to the panel and selected Sublevel C.
A pause. A whirr. Then the doors slid closed and the elevator began to descend.
The hum of the lift was almost deafening in the enclosed space. Tim clenched his jaw and tried to focus, but his mind was already sprinting ahead.
How the hell am I going to get him out? What if he's restrained? What if he's unconscious? What if this is a trap?
But no—those eyes had been real. That kind of pain couldn’t be faked. And if Tim walked away now, he’d be no better than the scientists who had ignored Greta’s screams or watched Conner shatter his own reflection out of confusion and fury.
The elevator slowed, then stopped. A mechanical clunk echoed above him, and the doors opened to a long, sterile hallway bathed in cold, white light.
Sublevel 4C.
He stepped out.
And walked straight into the unknown.
The hallway to Sublevel 4C stretched out ahead of Tim like a hospital wing left to rot—sterile white walls, flickering overhead lights, the constant low hum of power running somewhere deeper underground. The air felt wrong, heavy like a storm was waiting just behind the walls.
He scanned his badge again at the security panel and waited for the hiss of the magnetic seal disengaging. The door slid open.
Inside, the lab was deathly still.
Rows of empty workstations, glass-topped desks, scattered equipment still plugged in. Someone had been here recently. A clipboard rested on a counter with notes written in code he couldn’t decipher. But none of that mattered.
Because at the center of the room was the tank.
Tim’s boots moved on instinct. He stepped forward slowly, quietly, as if making a noise would wake something ancient. The tank was massive—at least eight feet tall and made of reinforced plexiglass, thick enough to withstand a blast. The fluid inside was glowing.
Neon green.
Tim’s stomach twisted. He’d seen Lazarus Pits. He’d fought people fresh from their depths. This wasn’t the same. The Lazarus fluid was darker, oilier—this was too bright, too vibrant, almost artificial.
But it made his skin crawl all the same.
Inside the tank floated a person—definitely male. Human-shaped. Naked, though the liquid distorted the view slightly. His body was covered in scars, hundreds of them, some jagged and fresh, others faded with time. But one in particular caught Tim’s attention: a Y-shaped incision, starting at the sternum and cutting all the way down to his navel.
An autopsy scar.
Jesus…
He looked dead. His skin had a faint grey hue, a whisper of life instead of a declaration. His hair—if it was hair—floated around his head in a bright, almost radioactive green halo. Wires and tubes were plugged into his skin at impossible angles. Electrodes twitched at the sides of his temples.
His eyes were closed.
Tim took a step closer, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
The figure moved.
A slow blink, then two green eyes fluttered open—glowing, unnatural, sharp in a way that felt like they weren’t just looking at him but through him.
Tim froze.
The eyes didn’t blink again. They locked onto him with eerie stillness. No confusion. No fear. Just… awareness. Watching. Calculating.
Tim dared a step closer.
“Can you… hear me?”
The man’s head didn’t move. But those eyes tracked him like a hawk. And then—barely perceptible—he nodded.
Tim’s heart thudded. “Who are you?”
The figure opened his mouth. His lips moved, soundlessly. Bubbles rose to the surface of the tank.
Nothing.
Then—behind Tim—his garbage cart crackled.
The analog radio, buried beneath fake trash bags and cleaning supplies, sparked to life with a burst of static. The dial began to shift wildly, skipping from frequency to frequency—AM, FM, even emergency bands—cycling like a roulette wheel possessed.
“–chaos in the eastern– skrrttt –we’ve got heavy– kkktt –three-two-Delta– skzzzhhh –Help... me…”
Tim’s blood turned to ice.
The voice wasn’t just static. It was constructed. The words had been built, piece by piece, like something trying to translate its own scream.
He looked back at the tank.
The man was still staring.
Tim didn’t hesitate anymore.
“You’re not staying here,” he whispered.
He set to work instantly, eyes darting across the machinery for a release valve or emergency override. He couldn’t just break the tank—it might kill him, and Tim didn’t know what the fluid would do if it splashed. He needed a way to drain it, something controlled.
His hands shook.
Think, Drake, think. He’s alive. Communicating. That’s not containment—that’s a prison. Or worse—a vivisection waiting to happen.
He scanned the interface next to the tank. Old, analog. Good. He popped open the manual control panel with a flick of his multi-tool, revealing a mess of wires and labeled switches.
One switch stood out: Tank Drain—Emergency Protocol
“No alarms,” Tim muttered under his breath. “No noise, no backup, no needles-in-the-neck horror show.”
He yanked a second cable free, disabling the tank’s monitoring system. A countdown blinked onto the screen: 00:45
Forty-five seconds until the tank drained.
Tim turned back to the figure inside, his voice hoarse. “I’m getting you out of there, okay? Just hang on.”
The man blinked once. Slowly.
As if to say Finally.
The countdown ticked down to its final seconds, and Tim braced himself.
00:03… 00:02… 00:01…
With a low hiss and a mechanical groan, the tank’s base released a venting mechanism. The glowing green liquid began draining fast through the floor, swirling into hidden pipes below. The lights inside the chamber flickered, briefly casting the figure in sharp, eerie contrast.
As the fluid drained past his chest, Tim’s earlier assumptions were stripped away with it.
The man’s hair, no longer buoyed by the fluid, clung wetly to his skull and slowly revealed itself for what it truly was—white, not green. Not dyed. Not glowing. Just the pure, lifeless color of frost.
And his skin…
Pale. Too pale. Like marble left in the dark. Like—
—a corpse.
Tim swallowed thickly.
Not Lazarus-touched. Not some metahuman accident. This was something else entirely.
The tank let out a harsh clang as it completed the drainage cycle. The figure’s feet touched the bottom for the first time. He stood there, naked, trembling.
Tim rushed forward, arms out to catch him just in case.
“Hey—steady. I’ve got you.”
The man’s eyes never left him.
Tim slid open the tank’s front panel with a harsh shhhhunk, cold mist spilling out around his ankles as he stepped inside. The man blinked at the sudden air hitting his skin, then took a shaky half-step forward.
His legs buckled instantly.
Tim caught him under the arms.
“Whoa, easy—okay, yep, your muscles are not ready for this. That’s fine. I’ve got you.”
The man’s body was cold. Not chilled—cold. There was no warmth to him. Tim had more body heat than a hot mug of coffee right now, and it still felt like he was hugging someone who’d been kept in a morgue drawer.
He looped one of the man’s arms around his neck and dragged him out of the tank. The man didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just kept staring at Tim with eyes that glowed like emerald headlights.
Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that this man had been watching for a very long time.
Then—
WEEEOOOOHHHHH!!
The alarm shrieked through the facility.
Tim cursed under his breath. “Damn it!”
It wasn’t the drain protocol. It was the unhooking of the tubes and electrodes. Probably biosign monitors or life signs. Whatever was left in the system had picked up a disconnect—and now the whole base knew something was off.
He heard the heavy metallic slam of automated doors locking above them.
Time to move.
“Okay,” he muttered to the man, adjusting his grip. “We're doing this. You and me. We’re getting out of here, and you’re not going back in that tank. No one is putting you back in that tank.”
He shoved his shoulder under the stranger’s arm and half-lifted, half-dragged him toward the service exit he’d scoped on the facility blueprint.
They passed rows of computers, blinking red lights warning of security breaches. Tim’s earpiece picked up distant voices. Guards shouting. Footsteps echoing through upper levels.
He moved faster.
The man stumbled beside him but didn’t fall again—he was learning, even if his limbs trembled with every step. Tim didn’t know how long he’d been in there, but it had been too long. No one walked like that unless they’d forgotten what walking was.
“You’ve got this,” Tim muttered, half to himself. “You’re doing great.”
The man didn’t respond. Just kept looking at him, green eyes wide, unblinking, and filled with something Tim couldn’t quite name—hope, maybe. Or disbelief.
They reached the hallway. A right turn, then a hidden stairwell tucked behind a false panel. The elevator would be locked down. Tim had to hope his memorized emergency exit still worked.
He hit the keypad on the panel—4-1-3-5-6—and the wall slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
“Yes!” He grinned for half a second. “Come on.”
More footsteps. Closer now.
Tim didn’t waste another breath. He yanked the man through the opening and started hauling him up the narrow, grated stairs two at a time. The figure followed, slow but determined. Like his body was made of old wire and bone and every movement risked snapping something.
The stairwell was dark. Cold. Claustrophobic. But they climbed.
And when they reached the emergency hatch that led to the outside…
Tim pushed it open and was met with—
Rain.
Thick, heavy, jungle rain pounded the pavement outside the hidden facility. The forest of Puerto Rico’s interior was right in front of them—lush, loud, wild.
“Okay,” Tim panted. “We made it out. Now all we have to do is vanish.”
Behind them, a siren wailed through the forest.
Tim looked at the strange, scarred man beside him—shivering, barely standing, but free—and gave him the barest smirk.
“You better not hate running.”
Tim’s boots skidded against the wet underbrush as he stumbled out of the treeline and spotted the old stolen jeep right where he’d left it—half-covered in brush and foliage near the service trail. His breath fogged in the humid air, heart pounding in his chest like it wanted to escape with them.
He dragged the silent figure to the passenger door, yanked it open, and all but hauled the man inside. The vinyl seat squeaked under the sudden weight. Without a word, Tim reached into the back and grabbed the oversized camo jacket he’d stashed earlier. It still smelled like gasoline and old sweat, but it was dry.
“Here,” he said, breathless as he draped the jacket over the man’s thin shoulders. “Modesty’s kind of a thing out here. Also, hypothermia sucks.”
The man didn’t flinch at the contact, didn’t even seem fazed by the rain still running in rivulets down his pale chest. He just sat there, wrapped in too much silence, eyes glowing faintly in the dark of the jeep’s cab.
Tim slammed the door shut, ran around to the driver’s side, and climbed in. The engine coughed once—twice—before roaring to life.
He floored it.
The wheels spun on the mud-slick trail before catching, flinging both of them forward with a jolt. Branches slapped at the windshield. The jungle blurred past them in a storm of green and gray.
Behind them, far in the distance, he saw the headlights of vehicles bouncing down the back trail toward the facility.
“Too late,” Tim muttered. “Better luck next time, bastards.”
The man beside him said nothing, but Tim could feel those eyes on him. Watching. Processing. Learning.
By the time they reached the edge of the city, the sun was already beginning to rise, casting the Puerto Rican skyline in orange and gold. The air was thick with humidity and the sticky scent of street food being prepped. Tourists wandered through the bustling streets of the beachside town, wearing bright shirts, loud hats, and expressions of vacationed bliss.
Tim kept the jeep slow and casual, merging into traffic like just another bored local dealing with the crowd.
There was no better place to vanish than right in the middle of chaos.
Plain sight. Works every time.
He caught glimpses of hotel lobbies packed with tourists, shops selling overpriced souvenirs, local vendors hollering in Spanish over music blasting from street corners. No one noticed his jeep. No one looked twice at the exhausted driver or the figure curled in the passenger seat under a camo jacket, eyes closed but restless.
He drove through it all, winding down toward the edge of the development where the traffic thinned out into a road lined with beachfront cabins.
Theirs was the last one on the lot. Partially shaded by palm trees, surrounded by enough privacy to give him a few precious moments before anyone got suspicious.
He pulled into the dirt parking strip beside the little wooden cabin, cut the engine, and exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.
“Alright,” Tim muttered, stepping out into the damp morning air. “Time to lay low.”
He moved around the car and opened the passenger door.
“Hey,” he said softly, tapping the man’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
The man's eyes blinked open—slow, eerie, and still too bright for the daylight. Tim helped him swing his legs out of the jeep and gently guided him up, one arm under his as they walked the short path toward the door.
The man leaned heavily on him. He was cold again. Tim could feel it seeping through the jacket, and his weight had the limp resistance of someone who didn’t trust his own limbs.
They made it to the cabin without drawing attention, and Tim fumbled with the keys he’d pocketed earlier. The door creaked open, revealing the modest interior—plain wood, a small kitchenette, a couch, one bed, and not much else. He’d chosen it for that very reason.
He stepped inside first, checking the blinds, securing the door, and doing a rapid sweep out of habit. Then, gently, he helped the man across the threshold and closed the door behind them.
Safe. For now.
Tim locked the door. Bolted it. Then braced both hands on the wood and let out a shaky breath as his adrenaline finally crashed.
They were out.
But the real work had just begun.
He turned around slowly, eyes falling on the man standing awkwardly in the center of the room, dripping rainwater onto the worn floorboards, watching Tim like he was the sun after a lifetime of darkness.
“Okay,” Tim said softly, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Let’s figure out what the hell they did to you.”
The man didn’t move.
Not when the door clicked shut, not when Tim passed in front of him to check the locks again, not even when a gull cried out beyond the cabin window. He just stood there, barefoot on the creaky wood floor, wrapped in an oversized camouflage jacket, head slowly turning as his glowing green eyes scanned the room.
He wasn’t looking at anything in particular—he was taking everything in. Like the entire space was too big. Too open. Too real.
Tim swallowed thickly and watched him. The man wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t cold. In fact, he looked—beyond the sheen of residual water and neon light—surprisingly intact.
But that was just surface level.
Up close, Tim could see the map of old scars covering his pale body. Some jagged and raised, others smooth like they’d been made with surgical precision. The Y-shaped one down his chest stood out the most. Brutal. Ugly. Familiar in the worst ways. Tim had seen similar ones in coroner reports—autopsy scars.
He moved slowly, circling the man as he took in more details. The skin had a bluish undertone, like it hadn’t seen real sunlight in years. The veins beneath it were faintly green—not Lazarus green, he was sure of that now—but something close enough to churn his stomach.
And the hair?
Not green at all. White. Bone-pale white. Like snow. Like ash.
Like death.
“…Okay,” Tim said, voice quiet. He stepped forward a little. “Let’s start simple. Can you tell me your name?”
The man turned to look at him. Again, no blinking. Just that direct, invasive kind of stare that made Tim feel seen through.
Then the man opened his mouth.
And the room filled with static.
It buzzed and crackled like a detuned television, sharp and wrong and loud. Tim jerked back instinctively, hissing through his teeth as the hair on his arms stood on end. The noise drilled straight into his skull.
The man immediately flinched too—shoulders folding in, eyes widening with sudden guilt or fear—and then his knees gave out.
“Shit!” Tim surged forward, catching him under the arms just before he hit the floor. The man was heavier than he looked—tall, too lean, but dense with the kind of muscle that didn’t come from gym reps. The kind that was built for survival. For war.
Tim grunted as he maneuvered them toward the chair by the tiny table. “Alright, okay, I’ve got you. Just—don't go doing that again unless I’ve got earplugs.”
He helped him sit, the jacket slipping down slightly as the man slumped forward, breathing hard without making a sound.
Tim hovered for a second, unsure what else he could do. He considered trying to get more answers—but one look at the man’s now-wincing eyes told him enough. Later. For now, food. Always food. That’s what Alfred would say.
“Right. Fuel first. Existential horror and cross-country fleeing after.”
He turned toward the kitchenette and yanked open the fridge. It was stocked enough—eggs, cheese, some leftover rice, a few cans of beans and…god, even juice. He started pulling things out without a plan.
Behind him, he heard the slight creak of the chair shifting.
Tim glanced over his shoulder—and paused.
The man was staring out the window.
Not moving. Not blinking. Just staring.
His lips were slightly parted in a soft, open expression of awe or maybe…confusion. He looked like someone seeing the sky for the first time. Like he wasn’t sure the outside was real. That the birds weren’t figments. That the ocean smell wasn’t a simulation.
Tim felt something twist in his chest. That expression—so quiet, so empty of anger, and yet filled with something desperate—was too familiar. Greta had looked like that once, when they’d broken her tank. So had Conner, when they cracked the pod.
How long have you been down there?
Then, the man moved. Not far. Just his hand.
He reached toward the old analog radio on the corner table—a battered thing that came with the cabin and hadn’t been touched until now.
Tim narrowed his eyes. “Wait—”
The dial turned on its own. The radio crackled to life, flipping channels at a breakneck pace, skipping past static, music, and weather reports until it settled into the same glitching language as before.
“…Sorry… ssshhk… for… your files… ssskrrrrhhh…”
Tim froze, halfway through opening a can.
“…What?”
The man didn’t answer. He simply turned his head toward Tim. Slowly. Silently. Those green eyes glowed faintly in the dim kitchen light, unblinking as ever.
Tim’s brain caught up a moment later.
Your files.
His eyes went wide. “Oh my god. My research. The flash drive. The documents—”
He slapped a hand to his forehead in a full-body cringe. “Son of a— I left everything! Everything!”
The noise startled the man again. He flinched like he expected another punishment, head ducking instinctively.
Tim winced, immediately dropping his voice to something calmer.
“Hey, hey—sorry. Not mad at you. Not even mad, really. Just—frustrated. With me.”
He ran a hand down his face and took a breath.
“Okay. New plan. We hide. We eat. Then I go back for what I left.”
He looked at the man again—barefoot, still wrapped in camo, skin too pale and eyes too bright.
“…And maybe we figure out how the hell you’re speaking through electronics.”
Because Tim had a sneaking suspicion that whatever this guy was… it wasn’t just a metahuman.
It was something else.
Tim set the plate down gently on the table between them. Simple fare—crackers, slices of cheese, a boiled egg, and some fruit. He didn’t know if ghosts ate, or if this man even qualified as a ghost, but whatever he was, he looked like he hadn’t eaten a solid meal in years.
The man stared at the food like it was a puzzle.
Tim sat down across from him, careful not to make sudden movements. He picked up a cracker, bit it in half, and gave a casual shrug, like this was any other night, like he hadn’t just broken into a black-ops ghost facility and rescued a potentially eldritch creature with static for a voice.
“It’s not gourmet,” he said, mouth half-full, “but you won’t die from it. Again. Probably.”
The man blinked slowly. His eyes flicked down to the food, then to Tim, then back again.
With fingers that trembled faintly, he reached for a cracker.
He didn’t take it like someone who was offered a meal. He snatched it. Fast and furtive, like he expected Tim to slap his hand away or scream or worse. The moment the cracker was in his palm, he shoved it into his mouth and chewed hurriedly, shoulders hunched, gaze darting sideways as if waiting for punishment.
Tim blinked, then softened.
“Hey,” he said gently, pushing the plate a little closer to the middle. “No one’s gonna take it from you.”
He got a tiny glance, hesitant, almost guilty. But the man nodded once.
Tim picked up another cracker for himself and leaned back slightly in the chair, trying not to push too fast.
“So,” he began after a moment, “do you have a name?”
The man tilted his head.
Then reached out and tapped the radio again.
“Don’t… know.”
The words warbled out in a mechanical tone, stitched together from noise and fragments of channels, but still comprehensible.
Tim hummed, not surprised but still disappointed on his behalf.
“Okay. That’s alright. Names are overrated.”
He leaned forward again, tapping his fingers lightly against the wood.
“Do you remember anything else? How long you were in that tank? When they took you?”
The man paused. Then shook his head slowly, mouth tightening at the corners. His hand hovered over the radio again.
“Long… time. Years. Taken from… USA.”
That pulled a reaction from Tim. His spine straightened just a little, and the gears in his head started turning faster.
“From the States? Really?”
Another nod.
It all lined up a little too well.
The files he’d scanned through before the escape—the ones he’d stupidly left behind—had mentioned “ectoplasmic organisms,” “specimens of unknown origin,” and a particular obsession with terms like “containment protocols” and “Class-E manifestations.”
And this guy?
Looked like Greta had when they found her. Like Conner had before he got free. Like someone who had been grown, broken, and studied.
Like a ghost in a human body.
Tim narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Then tested the waters.
“…Are you a ghost?”
The moment the word left his lips, the man perked.
Not violently. Not with fear. But like a wire had connected. Like something old and buried had pinged awake.
His eyes widened. He sat a little straighter.
Tim smiled faintly. “That ring a bell?”
A small nod.
Progress.
The man hesitated, then tapped the radio again.
It buzzed, shifted, and finally settled on:
“Maybe.”
Tim chuckled under his breath. “Well, we’re in the same boat, then. I’ve got no clue what you are either.”
That earned him a slightly tilted head and a look that was—curious. Not confused, not afraid. Just…like Tim had sprouted a second head and was reciting poetry.
The man reached out, hesitant again, and touched the radio with a bit more precision this time.
“Your… name?”
Tim blinked, a little surprised. The guy hadn’t shown much initiative yet. The fact that he wanted to know?
That was new.
Tim shrugged, leaned back, and gave him a sly smile. “You can call me Red.”
The man frowned a little at that. It was probably confusing—no red anywhere on him—but Tim didn’t exactly want to say Tim Drake, son of Gotham, heir to the Bat, part-time vigilante in his first conversation with a glowing maybe-ghost.
He tapped the man’s side of the table lightly. “And what do I call you, huh? Ghost?”
The man made a face.
Not just a wince. A disgusted grimace, like Tim had just offered him a spoonful of sewer water.
Tim burst out laughing.
“Oh wow. Okay, not Ghost. Got it. Message received.”
The man blinked at him. And blinked again.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. But his head tilted even more, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Like Tim’s laughter was something entirely alien—and beautiful.
Tim rubbed the back of his neck, still smiling. “Alright, we’ll come up with something else. Preferably something less Scooby-Doo.”
The man didn’t reply. But his eyes never left Tim’s face. And this time, there was something there that hadn’t been present before.
Wonder.
Tim leaned his arms on the table, eyes scanning the man across from him. The still-nameless, static-speaking half-ghost... guy.
He blew out a breath.
“Okay, you don’t like Ghost. Fair enough. Kind of generic anyway. Let’s try something else.”
The man blinked slowly, clearly not understanding but watching intently. Always watching. Tim wondered if he ever blinked voluntarily.
“Let’s go through the classics,” Tim muttered, half to himself as he ticked names off on his fingers. “Spirit, Wraith, Shade… Revenant? That one’s metal, but it sounds like you should be in a metal band, not sitting at a dinky cabin table with me.”
No reaction.
He looked up. Still those huge green eyes. Still that silent stare.
“Specter? Poltergeist?” Tim winced. “Too many horror movies. Okay. Banshee, maybe, except—well, you don’t scream.”
The man tilted his head again. Almost like curiosity, maybe a touch of confusion.
Tim paused, then rubbed the back of his neck.
“There was this game I used to play with the Young Justice team,” he continued, leaning back. “Phasmophobia. Bunch of ghost-hunting nonsense. Scared the crap out of Bart every time we played. Anyway, they had this whole list of ghost types—Mare, Jinn, Oni, Phantom—”
He didn’t even get the rest of the sentence out.
The man’s head snapped up at the word, posture suddenly alert, like he’d been yanked forward on invisible strings.
“Whoa!” Tim held his hands up. “Okay. Okay, that one hit.”
The man leaned forward with that eerie intensity, his fingers clutching the edge of the table, eyes burning bright with—was that hope?
“You like that?” Tim asked. “Phantom?”
An enthusiastic nod.
For the first time since Tim had pulled him from the tank, the man didn’t look lost or confused. He looked… present. Like someone had called his name in a fog and he’d finally heard it.
Tim’s lips curved into a soft, crooked smile.
“Well then,” he said, standing up with a quiet stretch, “Phantom it is.”
Phantom blinked up at him, expression stunned, like the word had tied him to something real. Something that mattered.
Tim stepped toward the cabin door. “I should probably get you some clothes. There’s a corner shop a few blocks away, and you can’t stay wrapped in my old mission jacket forever.”
He reached for the handle.
The moment his fingers touched it, Phantom moved.
Fast. Clumsy. Desperate.
“Whoa, hey—”
Phantom tried to stand, but his legs failed him again, collapsing out from under him as he reached toward Tim like a child about to be abandoned.
He hit the ground hard, gasping—not in pain, but in panic. His hands clawed toward Tim’s boots like he didn’t even realize he was crawling.
Tim’s breath caught. “Phantom. It’s okay. I’m not leaving forever—just—just five minutes—”
Phantom didn’t understand. Or didn’t care.
And before Tim could reach down to help, something shifted.
Tim felt it first as a vibration, somewhere low in his ribs. A hum, alien and wrong, like a foreign song playing inside his bones.
Then Phantom wasn’t on the floor anymore.
He was in Tim.
Phased into his chest, intangible and tangible all at once.
Tim froze.
What the—
Every nerve in his body screamed to panic. There was something inside him—no, through him. Like a shadow layered into his skin, pulsing faintly with a presence that wasn’t hostile, but unsettling. His heartbeat fluttered, thrown off by the reverberation echoing through his ribcage.
It didn’t hurt.
But it didn’t feel right either.
It felt like standing too close to a power line during a thunderstorm. Like being held underwater with something brushing against your ankles that shouldn’t be there.
“Phantom,” Tim said through gritted teeth, carefully calm, like talking to a child with a live grenade. “I need you to phase out of me.”
For a moment, nothing.
Then, like molasses being pulled from syrup, Phantom slipped back out. The air rippled faintly around Tim’s chest, and the man spilled backward onto the floor, stumbling clear of Tim’s body with a gasp.
Tim took two quick steps back and pressed a palm against his sternum. The hum was gone. But he could still feel where it had been.
Phantom looked up at him.
Not afraid of what he’d done.
Afraid of Tim’s reaction.
Like a kicked puppy bracing for a blow.
His wide, guilt-ridden stare made Tim’s throat tighten.
He crouched slowly, resting his arms on his knees, voice softer now.
“Okay. Okay, that was a lot. Maybe don’t ever do that again without permission. Especially not into my heart.”
Phantom ducked his head.
Tim sighed, then offered a hand.
“But I get it. You didn’t want me to go. You’re scared. And honestly, I’d be a mess too if I woke up in a stranger’s cabin after God-knows-how-long in a human fish tank.”
Phantom blinked.
Then, hesitantly, took the offered hand.
Tim helped him back into the chair and gave him a half-smile.
“Okay, new plan,” he said. “You’re coming with me. But only if you promise not to ghost into me again.”
The faintest flicker of amusement tugged at Phantom’s mouth.
Tim grinned. “Oh, so you do get puns.”
Tim was halfway through pulling his boots back on when he noticed Phantom wasn’t staring at him anymore.
He was staring at the floor.
More specifically—Tim’s shadow.
Phantom tilted his head, eyes locked onto the silhouette stretching out from Tim’s body in the cabin’s warm afternoon light. Then he looked up at Tim, then back to the shadow, one finger lifting to point.
Tim followed the gesture, squinting slightly. “What, my...?”
It took him a second. Then another beat.
Then—oh.
“You want to—” he paused, blinked, then laughed under his breath, mostly in disbelief. “You want to ride in my shadow? Like some kind of eldritch sidecar?”
Phantom didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at him, still and unblinking.
Tim ran a hand through his hair, groaning. “This is a terrible idea. This is the definition of a terrible idea. This is how people end up in urban legends. Or horror movies. Or urban legends about horror movies.”
But Phantom’s eyes were steady. Trusting.
Too trusting.
Tim sighed.
“Okay. But only because curiosity is my fatal flaw and I’ve already broken into a lab, freed a floating corpse-boy, and smuggled you through jungle traffic in a stolen jeep. What’s one more thing on my rap sheet?”
Phantom didn’t move—not at first. But as Tim gave the smallest nod, Phantom reached toward the floor slowly, hand trembling like he expected the light itself to lash out.
The tips of his fingers touched the shadow. A ripple passed through it like ink in water, warping slightly before stilling.
Then, inch by inch, Phantom leaned down, eyes never leaving Tim’s face, and phased into the darkness.
He melted into it like smoke, dissolving into the long shape stretching under Tim’s feet. The edges of the shadow shimmered faintly green before solidifying again, seamless, silent—
Except now, it had eyes.
Two glowing green pinpricks blinked up from the floor where Tim’s own shadow face might’ve been.
Tim exhaled slowly. “Okay. That’s… that’s mildly horrifying.”
Phantom gave him a thumbs up. A literal green hand formed out of shadow and mimed the motion before dissolving again.
Tim snorted.
“This is your compromise, huh?” he muttered, grabbing his keys. “You hide in my shadow like a creepy backpack ghost, and I agree not to leave you behind. Fine. But no funny business, got it?”
The shadow nodded. Or at least made a motion that could definitely be interpreted as a nod if you squinted hard enough.
“And definitely no popping out in public. People will scream. I will scream. You’re still naked, Phantom. I cannot have you emerging like some kind of spectral streaker in the middle of a fruit stand.”
Another thumbs up.
Tim opened the door, shaking his head with a reluctant grin. “This is such a bad idea.”
But the sun outside was bright, the cabin’s porch empty, and no one gave him a second glance as he stepped out into the crowd-choked streets of the tourist trap town.
The shadow under his feet shifted slightly.
Watching.
Following.
Tim glanced down with the corner of his eye.
“Just remember,” he said under his breath, “this compromise only works if you stay subtle.”
The shadow’s green eyes blinked.
And they set off together—an undercover detective and the haunted echo now living in his silhouette.