Theodore Green, fifteen years old, a first-year student at Gotham High School, was a handso boy with black hair and blue eyes.
Currently, he was facing a very serious problem.
Theodore suspected that his classmate, Timothy Drake—the adopted son of Gotham's wealthiest man—was suffering inhumane abuse.
The story began a week ago.
In the single-stall boys' shower room at Gotham High School, Tim, who was rinsing shampoo from his hair, deftly turned around.
As Robin, he had undergone specific training that allowed him to detect gazes upon him instantly.
Just now, Tim keenly realized that the person peeking at him had no sense of concealnt whatsoever, indicating they were likely a novice.
However, the frosted glass door blocked all views.
Tim wrapped a bath towel around his waist and yanked the shower door open: the bathroom corridor was empty, and there were no footprints on the steaming floor.
The blinds at the end of the corridor were tightly shut, and there were no signs of climbing on the ceiling or pipes.
This was strange.
Tim closed the door again and walked back under the showerhead, lost in thought. Cold water splashed on his bruised and purple back, but it didn't make the young man frown even slightly.
Was that distinct feeling of being watched just now rely an illusion?
Recalling the fierce battle with Killer Croc last night, Tim wearily pinched the bridge of his nose.
Or perhaps, he was just a little sleep-deprived.
What Tim didn't see was Theodore Green, at the corner of the corridor, pressing his back against the wall, his eyes gloomily downcast.
The coolness of the wall seeped through his clothes, bit by bit, into the skin of his back.
Theodore recalled everything he had just seen.
Those regular, purplish-blue striped marks, as if from a heavy object, were deeply etched in his mory; he was very familiar with them.
Rather, anyone who experienced it once would never forget it.
—When the wounds were first inflicted, the strong impact would numb one's senses.
That night, thick blood clots began to appear under the skin, like the claw marks of a devil.
Two to three days later, the color of the marks began to spread outwards, as did the pain.
During this period, any slight movent of the upper body would strain the back muscles.
At the sa ti, the spreading bruises would make the skin look like rotting peach flesh, creating a very direct visual impact.
It was hard to imagine such wounds appearing on his classmate's back.
And it wasn't just anyone; it was Timothy Drake.
As a transparent figure in the class, Theodore's presence was not strong.
He sat in the second-to-last row by the window in the classroom.
Many tis, classmates would recognize his face and know he was a mber of the class, but when they opened their mouths, they couldn't even accurately say Theodore's na.
Theodore didn't mind; this was intentional on his part.
But Timothy was different.
Despite his gentle and quiet nature, Timothy was undoubtedly the central figure in the class.
His dramatic background ensured that wherever he went, he was a shining light:
A young master from a wealthy family, supervised by Gotham Baby Bruce, his photos frequently appeared in newspapers, seemingly being grood to be the next successor of Wayne Group.
Theodore knew that the girls on the school's cheerleading squad often discussed Timothy in private.
They speculated about what kind of girl he would like, hoping to be fortunate enough to be favored and then experience a very cool date.
The football team mbers, however, felt sowhat resentful towards Timothy. They thought the young master's personality was simply that of a bookworm, who just happened to be born into a good family—but then again, this was Gotham.
Theodore's attitude was exactly in between the two.
He had no ill will towards Timothy.
The last ti the two interacted was a month ago. He handed over a howork notebook to the other, and Timothy politely thanked him softly.
He didn't even mispronounce Theodore's na like the rest of the class.
So, who exactly inflicted such terrible wounds on his classmate's back?
Theodore believed the answer to this question didn't even require an ounce of deductive reasoning.
—Bruce Wayne.
Of course, it was Bruce Wayne, it could only be Bruce Wayne.
The adoptive father who lived with him day and night under the sa roof, Gotham's notorious playboy, the Wayne CEO who held great power. For such a magnate, to toy with a young boy was easier than picking fruit from a branch.
Upon realizing this, many cruel mories flooded Theodore's mind, his fingertips began to tingle, and a bitter taste spread from the back of his tongue to the tip.
If he had any self-awareness, he would do best to quietly walk away, keep his mouth shut, and forget what he had just witnessed.
In Gotham, how long you live depends on how quickly you learn not to ddle in other people's business.
Who would stand up against soone at the top of the pyramid for an underage boy?
But, that was Timothy.
He would still softly thank Theodore when receiving howork, his ocean-blue eyes holding a friendly smile.
"…"
Theodore released his grip, the strap of his backpack having broken in his palm at so point.
I need to find a way. Theodore thought: a thod that is safe enough and can help Timothy.
The school suddenly announced that students from each class would go to the infirmary in order for a physical examination.
Tim closed his book.
"I thought we already had our physical examination this sester?"
His deskmate shrugged, neatly tidying the textbooks on his desk. Being able to skip a bit of class made him ecstatic.
"Who knows, I heard it was proposed by the Student Council President. She said that occasional surprise physicals can confirm the true condition of students, to prevent hidden incidents of violence at ho or in school."
"Makes sense." Tim nodded.
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