Red Robin has seen some bizarre stuff.

 

Elias just floats there, shrugging like this is all painfully routine.
Like he has a meeting with Death at 3, a ghost riot at 4, and absolutely no time for vigilante confusion.

Red Robin rubs his temples.
“Please tell me you at least have some documentation? A card? A pamphlet? A Wikipedia page?”

Elias: “I had a pamphlet once. It caught fire. Spontaneously. Three times.”

Tim stares.
“…Yeah, Bruce is definitely going to blame me for this.”

Elias hovers backward, already phasing through a streetlamp like it’s optional.
“Just tell him I’m unionized.”

Tim:
“THAT DOESN’T HELP.”

And then the ghost boy is gone—slipped through the air like a bad Wi-Fi connection—leaving Tim Drake standing on a smoky sidewalk, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he should start carrying holy water.

1st part 

Red Robin has seen some bizarre stuff.
Gotham breeds weird like it’s a cash crop—he’s desensitized, seasoned, battle-worn in the “yeah sure, why not” way.

But nothing in all his Robin years, his Titans years, or his “accidentally adopted by a vigilante cult” years prepared him for this.

It starts with a fire. A warehouse on 12th goes up like it was waiting for an excuse. Red Robin grapples in, already scanning for trapped civilians—

—and something neon-white and glowing slips past him like a breeze.

The figure dives through a collapsing metal beam, through it, scoops up a coughing teenager, then flies straight out the opposite wall like the laws of physics personally offended him.

Tim skids to a halt on the pavement as the ghostly newcomer floats down, depositing the rescued teen on a stretcher with practiced, tired gentleness.

Red Robin, panting:
“Okay—props on the save. Meta classification?”

The floating boy, expression flat as a Midwest highway:
“Specter.”

Tim frowns. “Right. But that’s, like… what you call yourself. What’s your meta type?”

The kid’s eyes flare toxic green.
“I said. Specter.”

A long, painful silence.

Tim’s face does that slow, calculating glitch expression he gets when his brain tries to update Windows in the middle of combat.

Finally, he mutters, horrified:
“…I am absolutely not explaining this to Bruce.”

The ghost boy—Elias, he said?—just shrugs with the frazzled aura of someone who has already seen three portals, two eldritch tax audits, and at least one interdimensional cult sacrifice this week.