In the middle of a high-stakes raid on a rogue biolab, a containment breach ends in a flash of blinding light. When the smoke clears, Tim Drake’s tactical gear is a crumpled heap on the floor—and sitting in the middle of it is a wide-eyed, trembling four-year-old.
The mission in the Narrows was a mess from the jump. Scarecrow’s militia had rigged the abandoned shipyard with more than just fear gas; they had shaped charges set to blow if the perimeter was breached.
The air in the Nest was too still, a heavy silence that seemed to press against Tim’s skin like a physical weight. He sat at the desk, the blue light of three different monitors reflecting off his tired eyes, but his hands had stopped moving across the keyboard minutes ago.
The transition wasn't a flash of light, but a sickening compression of bone and memory. When the dust from the Mad Hatter’s experimental "Chronos-Gas" cleared, the Batman was gone. In his place, kneeling in the center of the Batcave, was a boy who looked no older than eight.