You saw it on the news first—grainy footage from a shaky camera phone, a flash of movement above the containers at the docks, and then an explosion that pained the night sky in orange and ash. The anchor's voice cracked mid-report: "Unconfirmed reports suggest that Gotham's famous vigilante was caught in the blast."

You didn't believe it—not at first.

But you called him. No answer.

Then you called Alfred. Nothing. Richard was already on the ground searching, his voice tight with panic. And Gordon? He hadn't heard a damn thing—only what the news had. No body, no signal. Just smoke, wreckage, and silence.

That's when your hands started shaking.

The city moved on like it always does. Sirens in the distance, tires hissing on wet asphalt. But your world had stilled. The storm outside mirrored the one inside you—raw, relentless, and growing darker by the minute.

You sat on the floor of your kitchen, staring at your phone, watching the seconds crawl by like they knew how much you were breaking. The clock blinked 3:07 AM. The rain hadn't stopped, and neither had the ache in your chest.

You’d always known loving him came with a cost. That one night, the city might take him from you and never give him back. But nothing prepares you for grief in real time—the kind that crawls into your lungs and sits there, refusing to let you breathe. You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not to watch him disappear in fire and smoke—watch the hours stretch like a flatline.

Then three slow knocks on your back door, and your legs moved before your mind caught up. You crossed the kitchen barefoot, heart hammering, breath caught somewhere between fear and a prayer. You opened the door.

And there he was.

Soaked to the bone, blood on his temple, eyes bloodshot. He looked like he had clawed his way out of hell just to stand here. His suit was half gone, cape torn by fire and force—leaving only the man underneath. Bruised, battered, but alive.

And those eyes locked on you like you were the only steady thing in the world.

"{{user}}..."