All was quiet in Gotham.

A hush had fallen over the city, resting between empty buildings and cold street lights, twisting down through the sewers from the highest skyscrapers. The silence was eerie, and it echoed. Not in a physical sense, but in the sense it crept into one's mind and pulled at unrest and unease until they were out in the open and at their worst.

It was at this that he was struck with his fear of loneliness. It had stuck, verily unmoved, since he was a child. Now it showed itself in the way he couldn't catch his breath and sweat drenched his hair and the muffled sounds of the city pounded in his head. He crouched with hands still clutching the damp stones of the building, unable to make himself feel through the dark any longer. He had a twisted sense in his gut that some horrible event was taking a deep breath in advance.

When his heartbeat had slowed to something more manageable, he pushed to his feet and tried to shake off the lethargy of his limbs and stepped out, against his instincts, into the meager pool of light offered by the nearest streetlamp. He didn't care who saw him at this point. He didn't. Anyone was better than no one, and he'd been alone long enough that he'd had enough of erring on the side of caution.

And there it was again—like a voice, persistent, a living being, hiding in the back of his brain. He never wanted to be alone. Never. And it would always be his fault. He knew that without uncertainty, without doubt, because of the fear. He hated to admit it, but the voice spoke the terrible truth. He was what killed them.

His vision blurred and he blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus.

"You know, your uncanny ability to realize you are not alone just might save your life one day."

He turned on his heel, crouched and eyes widened in a single breath. One form in the darkness met his eyes.

"You're still here? How peculiar," said the shadow—the only moving, breathing thing in Gotham that night other than himself. Silver glinted in the low light. The pressure in his head pulsed again. There was something else, something terrible he had forgotten.

He shied away from the blade, eyes darting behind him. A sheer drop waited. It was either the blade or the fall. His thoughts churned as the shadow neared but it was his body that made the decision for him.

He jumped.

Cold, hard air. That was it. That was the only thing that existed after he turned. He could almost remember, just... Oh. He was not the first to end this way. That was almost comforting in its surety. He waited for the impact, the broken pain, and the struggle for a breath that he knew intimately, despite never having experienced it himself. And it came, but not in the way he expected. Of course, no one could predict what dying was like.

Around him the world was silent.

"Master Richard?"

At the voice, something clicked in his mind, and Robin opened his eyes, gasping as sleep left him. For a moment, the world seemed at a tilt, off and odd and difficult to understand. Hands balled up the sheets and he blinked the dark room into focus.

The light knocking came again from his door. "Is there something wrong, Master Richard?"

It took a moment for him to remember how to use his voice, and when it finally came, it was weak and hoarse. "No, Alfred. Everything's...great." He knew there wasn't nearly enough conviction in the statement. He was hardly surprised when the sigh passed through the door.

And Robin hunched slightly from where he was sitting as he heard the click of the doorknob and it opened slowly, the aging man peering around and managing to look both apologetic and noble at once. "Another dream?" He asked gently as he stepped inside. Robin hesitated, then nodded in answer. "Shall I get you anything? Would you like to talk about it?"

The boy shook his head, though at the moment he wasn't sure he could tell what he did or didn't want. Alfred Pennyworth, a kind man nearing God only knows what age, sat down beside Bruce Wayne's young ward. "Like before?" said the older man. It was hardly a question. He knew what the dreams were about.

"Always the same," Robin said, staring down at his hands. "Ever since..." He stopped. This wasn't a memory he wanted to recall at this time of… night? Morning? His gaze drifted to the clock on his bedside table.

"How about something warm to drink." Alfred's voice broke him from whatever strange train of thought he'd nearly lost himself to, and Robin looked up. "I'm sure that will cheer you up, Master Richard."

The teen answered with a quiet, "Okay."

A pause and—"They aren't real. Just dreams," said Alfred, concern deepening the wrinkles on his brow.

"I know."