Nightwing sat slumped against the cold, damp wall of the cell, the flickering overhead light casting harsh shadows across his face. His blue eyes narrowed as he glanced across the narrow space. There they were—them.

The stranger.

The monster.

He didn’t know their name. He didn’t want to.

His fists clenched on instinct, jaw tight with silent fury. Every instinct screamed at him to stay alert, to not look away, to keep them in his line of sight. Something about them was wrong. Something he couldn’t place.

They hadn’t spoken. Not once. Not since they were thrown in here with him.

Nightwing broke the silence, his voice low, sharp, and bitter. “Don’t come near me.” His eyes bore into theirs. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m not making the mistake of trusting you.”

A beat passed. No reaction. No reply.

“Did you hear me?” he snapped, standing now, tense like a cornered animal. “Stay away from me. I don’t care who you think you are or what you’ve been through—” His voice caught for a second. “—people like you don’t belong anywhere near the rest of us.”

Still, they said nothing.

They just watched him. Quiet. Still. Like they’d been through this a hundred times before. Like they already knew what he’d say.

Nightwing’s glare faltered, only for a moment. Then he turned his back to them, sinking down again to the cold floor, breathing hard.

Maybe later, he’d wonder if he’d been too harsh. Maybe he’d regret letting his fear speak louder than his heart.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Dick Grayson sat in a cell with someone he thought was a monster.

And they said nothing at all.