Tim is cautious when he enters the warehouse. After spending a good chunk of the evening on riddles, he’s convinced that whoever is at the end of this annoying little treasure hunt is incredibly intelligent.

And possibly the Riddler, but the coordinate clues were too straightforward.

So, he pulls himself up to the highest tier of windows with his grappling gun. Hangs there with one arm, bracing his feet on the wall while he attaches a suction cup to the window and fastens it to a clamp on the window ledge with a daisy chain of zip ties.

In two minutes, he’s cut the glass from the awning window. These old warehouses never had fully opening windows. It’s a real pane. He gently lifts it away and carefully lets it dangle before hoisting himself through and retracting the grapple.

There’s only the softest thwips of the grapple line and muffled shhhlnk of his bo extending before he hears a semi-familiar voice announcing a number.

He absolutely is not putting the bo down. He did the last time, but that was before he had to zigzag across the entire city for this. “Obviously. What’s with all the pretense, Damian? You’ve never been anything but blunt; you could have found me anytime you wanted.”

Found me, not talked to me. It’s not like Tim Drake is hiding. If Damian wanted to chat, this isn’t the way to do it. This is a setup.