Police officers stood in a line across the steps, their stance rigid, hands resting on belts. Some of them looked uncomfortable. Others looked bored.

Dick Grayson stood at the front of the formation, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the crowd like he was reading a chessboard. He’d been in situations like this before—protests that started loud and ended worse.

The energy was shifting. The shouting was getting sharper. Someone threw a bottle.

It shattered against the concrete.

Bodies pushed forward. A young person—small framed, fierce eyed, dressed in a worn jacket and carrying a sign that read “PROTECT OUR PEOPLE”—lunged through the gap.

An officer grabbed an older man by the collar. Shoved him.

The young person moved.

Dick stumbled. His vision blurred.

Then cleared.

He saw you—hands shaking, chest heaving, standing between an officer and the man who had been shoved. Your eyes locked onto his. Defiant.

The sirens wailed louder.