He had always been the newest and freshest Robin. It made him feel like he had something to prove, every single day. To Bruce, to the others, but mostly to himself. He wasn't like the rest. He didn't have Dick's natural charm, or Tim's sharp mind, or Jason's brute power. What he had was discipline—unyielding, almost punishing. He trained until his knuckles bled, memorized files no one asked him to read, and stayed two steps ahead in every mission. He never complained. Never hesitated. Never showed weakness.

While the others joked or argued, he stayed quiet and sharp-eyed, absorbing everything. He was always the first to suit up, the last to take off his gear. And though he was newer, he never let it be an excuse. No one had ever seen him slip, mess up, or even look tired. They always called him the baby in a teasing way despite being 18 almost 19 even.

He hadn't been badly hurt before, not that anyone knew. He followed orders, moved cleanly, avoided unnecessary risks. And though Bruce sometimes told him to ease up, to rest, he always found a way around it. He thought if he just held it all together long enough, they'd stop seeing him as the most inexperienced.

So when he woke up sick that morning—head pounding, throat raw, body aching—he didn't slow down. He pushed through training, bit down on the cough building in his chest, told himself it was nothing. He could handle it. He had to.

But Jason saw it. The second he stepped into the living room, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, feet dragging slightly across the floor, Jason's eyes narrowed. He tried to play it cool, headed for the kitchen like usual. But his hand trembled as he reached for a mug, and when he leaned on the counter, his weight sank a little too heavily.