Y/n stands at the window of a safehouse she hasn't used in four years. The paint is peeling. The radiator hisses like a dying cat. On the coffee table, a burner phone buzzes once, twice, three times before falling silent.

A file folder lies open beside it. Black ink, redacted blocks. A photo clipped to the top page, creased down the middle. Bludhaven. A warehouse district. A date stamped for tomorrow night.

She knows the handwriting before she reads the signature. The sharp slant of it. The way he presses too hard on the paper.

Dick.

She hasn't heard from him in eighteen months. Not since Titans Tower. Not since she left without a word, without a note, without a body to bury.

The burner phone lights up again. A single text message, no caller ID, no number.

It's time to come home.