You stood on the ledge of the old textile factory, your back to the hundred-foot drop. The wind whipped at your coat, but you didn’t move. You’d been waiting.

He landed without a sound, a shadow detaching itself from the darker silhouette of a gargoyle. Nightwing straightened up, water beading on the blue emblem across his chest. His escrima sticks were holstered, but his posture was coiled, ready.

Then his gaze caught on something. The playful edge vanished from his expression, replaced by something sharper. He took a single step forward, his boots crunching on the wet gravel.