The city was restless tonight. Rain came down in thin, silver needles, and the neon signs of Blüdhaven flickered like they were trying to remember why they’d ever wanted to be bright. Somewhere above the streets, a figure in black and blue moved with the easy grace of a man who’d been doing this since before he could drive.

But tonight, Dick Grayson’s head wasn’t in it. His hands moved on instinct—grapple, swing, land—but his mind was back in the apartment, replaying the argument. The sharp words. The way the door had clicked shut behind him.

He landed on a rooftop, took a breath, and pulled out his phone. The screen glowed in the dark, and after a long moment, he started typing.