The surveillance room was quiet except for the low hum of machines and the soft clicking of buttons.
On the screens, the man known as Tom—a simple restaurant waiter—moved in and out of view across different camera feeds. One moment, he appeared in the left hallway. A few minutes later, he emerged on the right side. Sometimes he was walking calmly. Other times, he looked like he was in a hurry.
But there was one constant.
He was never alone.
Every time Tom appeared on camera, he was surrounded by other people—guests, waiters, security staff, or passing workers. The crowd swallowed him perfectly, like a drop of ink dissolving in water.
Because of that, the officers in the monitoring room stared at the screens for hours without finding anything clearly suspicious.
Tom wore a standard waiter's uniform—white shirt, black vest, neat bow tie. And that was part of the problem.
There were too many people dressed exactly like him.
Waiters moved endlessly through the corridors, delivering drinks, guiding guests, cleaning tables. They blended together into a single, indistinguishable stream of motion. Trying to track one specific person among them was like trying to follow a single snowflake in a storm.
More importantly, Tom never did anything overtly wrong.
He didn't linger. He didn't sneak. He didn't run when he shouldn't. He walked naturally, talked briefly, nodded politely, and moved on.
If the police hadn't already known that this "Tom" was suspicious, no one—no matter how experienced—would have thought twice about him.
The limitations of the surveillance system only made things worse.
Each camera had a narrow field of view. On the entire eighteenth floor, there were only fifteen cameras, just enough to cover main corridors and a few key intersections.
And the auction venue itself?
Only one symbolic camera was installed in the public entertainment area.
The actual bidding hall—where millions were about to change hands—had no cameras at all.
The reason was simple and infuriating.
Gotham's elite hated surveillance.
They valued privacy above security and despised the sight of uniformed officers watching them like criminals. For tonight's high-profile auction, political pressure had forced the police to minimize their visible presence.
That meant Commissioner Gordon had only one real source of information—
The plainclothes officers scattered among the guests.
Even the hallways weren't fully covered. This was a luxury hotel, not a prison. Installing omnidirectional surveillance with no blind spots had never been an option.
Then—
"Here. And here. And also here."
Robin's voice cut through the room.
He stepped closer to the wall of monitors and pointed sharply at three different screens.
"Rewind these feeds," he said. "Seven minutes. Twenty-two minutes. And seventeen minutes ago."
"Do it," Commissioner Gordon ordered without hesitation.
Several officers sprang into action. The footage rolled back, and the three screens froze at different timestamps.
On all three of them—
Tom appeared.
"Pay attention," Robin said calmly. "These are three different cameras. Different angles. Different times."
He paused.
"But they're showing the same place."
The officers leaned in.
After a moment, realization spread across their faces.
"It's a corner," one officer said. "Two hallway cameras and one ceiling camera."
"That's right," Robin nodded.
Then he pointed again.
"Now look closely. His position changes slightly each time. But at one specific moment—on all three recordings—he looks at the exact same spot."
The room went silent.
"Three passes," Robin continued. "Same corner. Same direction of gaze."
His eyes sharpened.
"Why would someone need to confirm the same location three times?"
Commissioner Gordon straightened immediately.
"Notify the nearest patrol unit," he said. "Have them inspect that corner—"
"No."
Robin raised his hand.
"I'll go."
Gordon turned sharply. "Absolutely not."
Robin's tone was firm. "We don't know if it's a trap. Sending regular officers could get them hurt—or worse."
"And sending you is better?" Gordon snapped. "You're still a minor!"
Robin smiled faintly and tapped his chest.
"You wouldn't believe the things I've survived."
Then his expression grew serious.
"You have something more important to handle. The auction hall."
Gordon hesitated.
"I suspect he's already switched identities," Robin continued. "If you quietly recheck the guests—just enough pressure—you might force him to reveal himself."
Before Gordon could respond—
Robin was already moving.
He turned, sprinted, and vanished out the door.
"Robin—wait!"
Gordon rushed after him.
But when he burst into the hallway, Robin was gone.
No footsteps. No shadow. No trace.
The entire disappearance took less than three seconds.
Gordon clenched his fists.
"…Damn it," he muttered.
How did the Bat-Family do that?
He once asked Batman if they could teleport.
Batman hadn't answered.
That look alone—cold, silent, and deeply judgmental—had been answer enough.
---
23:35.
Robin glanced at the time as he ran.
Twenty-five minutes remained until the thief's announced move.
Plenty of time.
He reached the corner shown in the surveillance footage and slowed to a stop.
He studied the walls. The angles. The lighting.
Then he stepped carefully, counting.
Five steps. Nine o'clock direction.
A dead zone.
A perfect surveillance blind spot.
Robin tilted his head upward.
There it was.
A ventilation duct in the ceiling.
The metal mesh covering it was slightly bent. The screws showed clear signs of being removed and replaced.
This floor had dozens of ventilation ducts.
But only this one—
Was invisible to every camera.
"So that's what you were checking," Robin murmured.
He traced the duct layout in his mind.
"If this connects the way I think it does…"
His eyes widened.
A grin spread across his face.
"…Got you."
23:40.
Still ahead of schedule.
Robin fired his grapple gun.
The hook latched cleanly onto the loosened mesh. With a sharp pull, the cover came free.
He holstered the gun, jumped, kicked off the wall, and grabbed the opening.
In one smooth motion, he pulled himself up and vanished into the duct.
Minutes later, he forced open another vent and dropped silently to the floor.
The room was dark.
No windows. No doors.
Only the faint glow of light leaking from behind a large screen.
Voices echoed softly.
"Going once…"
"Going twice…"
Robin's eyes narrowed.
"So it really leads here."
The temporary auction storage room.
Rows of tables filled the space, each holding glass cases with items sealed inside. Artifacts. Jewelry. Weapons. Relics.
Everything waiting its turn to be displayed.
But one thing was missing.
The Pink Dream.
The crown jewel of the auction.
Something that valuable would never be kept here. It would remain hidden in a deeper vault until the final moment.
Then Robin remembered the message.
The feast of nobles is loud and brilliant.
But no one remembers the tragedy of Troy.
His gaze shifted to a corner.
There, resting quietly, was a wooden box.
Second-to-last item.
Plain. New. Unlocked.
Too ordinary.
"This is it," Robin whispered.
The switch.
He hesitated.
Then reached into his belt and pulled out a gas mask.
He put it on.
Without another second of doubt—
He opened the box.
BANG!
A sharp blast of compressed air exploded outward.
Robin stepped back instantly.
From inside the box, a white flag shot upward.
Printed boldly on the cloth—
A cartoon portrait of the thief.
And beneath it, in dramatic lettering:
"Surprised?"
"Or exactly what you expected?"
Robin stared at it.
Then laughed softly.
"…Yeah," he said. "That figures."
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