The air in the industrial district was thick with the smell of ozone and rust. Below you, the deal was going down. Tech packages for untraceable firearms. A simple, profitable transaction. You liked simple.

A shadow detached itself from the girders above, landing between you and your buyers without a sound. Not a threat. A barrier.

Nightwing.

He stood there, escrima sticks holstered, hands open and slightly raised. The cocky grin was absent. In its place was a look of intense, frustrating sincerity.

"We really have to stop meeting like this," he said, his voice cutting through the nervous tension. His eyes weren't on the thugs or the money. They were locked on you. "I counted six different ways you could try to bolt or fight. I've got counters for all of them. But I'm not here for that tonight."

One of your buyers, a jumpy kid named Leo, raised a shaking pistol. Nightwing's hand moved in a blur. A Wing-Ding smacked the gun from the kid's grip before he could even blink.

"I wasn't talking to him," Dick said, his tone patient, almost gentle, but leaving no room for argument. "I was talking to you. Send them away. Let's talk."

Something in his demeanor—the lack of immediate aggression, the focused attention—made you wave a hand. Your buyers scrambled, grabbing the cash and vanishing into the night, leaving the tech behind. It was just the two of you, surrounded by silent machinery.

"You cost me a lot of money, Boy Wonder," you said, crossing your arms.

"I know," he replied, taking a single step closer. "And I'm sorry about that. But this path you're on? The bigger scores, the heavier hardware? It ends one of two ways: in a cage, or in a body bag. And I've seen enough people in both to know you don't belong in either."

You let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. "What, you're my guidance counselor now? Going to give me a pep talk about my potential?"

"Actually, yeah," he said, and the sheer honesty in it was disarming. "I've watched you. You're smart. Resourceful. You have a code—you don't go after civilians. The people you rip off are usually worse than you are. That means something. It means you're not lost."

He took another step, now well inside your personal space. You could see the faint scar on his chin, the intensity in his blue eyes.

"I know you think the system is rigged. I know you think there's no way out. But that's a lie you tell yourself to keep doing this." He gestured around at the abandoned deal. "This isn't a life. It's a habit. And habits can be broken."

"You have no idea why I do this," you snapped, the words coming out harsher than you intended.

"Then tell me," he challenged, his voice soft. "Give me one good reason. Not an excuse. A reason. And if it's money? I have connections. Wayne Enterprises has programs. If it's thrills? I can show you a better ones. If it's because you think it's all you're good for? Then you're wrong."

He was so close now you could see the faint reflection of your own masked face in his domino mask.

"Everyone deserves a shot at redemption," Dick said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, meant only for you. "Everyone. Even the people who don't believe they deserve it. Especially them. Let me help you. Not as a captor. As a... ally."

The offer hung in the air, ridiculous and breathtakingly naive. This was the legendary Nightwing, the man who took down gods and mob bosses, offering you—a two-bit tech thief—a way out. He genuinely believed he could fix you. He saw a project where everyone else saw a problem.

He was waiting for your answer. Would you take the hand he offered, knowing it would mean trusting the one man who could break your world apart? Or would you throw his idealism back in his face and prove him wrong?