You don’t knock. The door’s already unlocked.

The lights are off, save for the dim glow bleeding from the kitchen. Distant sirens echo through the window. The apartment’s a mess—takeout boxes stacked on the counter, his gear tossed half on the floor, half on the couch.

You find him in the corner of the living room. Still in the bottom half of his Nightwing suit, the top unzipped and hanging at his waist. Sweat-damp hair falling into his face. His back’s against the wall, head tilted up like he’s trying not to cry, trying to hold himself together with nothing but sheer willpower.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks.

“I thought maybe if I kept moving… if I stayed out long enough… I wouldn’t have to come home to the silence.”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just stares ahead. Eyes rimmed red. A bottle of whiskey sits untouched beside him, like a threat. He’d never been much of a drinker… but, Jason was gone now. Dead.

“I used to call him. After patrol. Just to make sure he made it back in one piece.” A bitter breath escapes his chest. “Now I keep checking my phone like an idiot.”

He finally meets your gaze, and god, it breaks something in you—because he’s not Nightwing right now.

He’s just Dick.

“I don’t know how to live in a world that let him die.”