Across the street, a massive LED screen glows, bathing the surrounding bricks in a garish, shifting light. It’s a gossip site, featuring a paparazzi shot of Nightwing in mid-flip, muscles coiled, suit clinging to every heroic contour. The headline screams: “AMERICA’S FAVORITE HERO: WHY WE CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF NIGHTWING.”

And there he is. Not in the picture, but directly beneath it. Dick Grayson is seated on the parapet, his back to you, silhouetted against the bright screen. His shoulders are slumped, the usual electric energy gone. A dusting of snow clings to his dark hair and the shoulders of his suit, as if he's been sitting there, perfectly still, for a long time.

He isn't preening. He isn't smirking. He's just… watching. The neon light plays over his still form, and the expression on his profile, what you can see of it, is one of profound, weary resignation.