Rain hammered the rooftops of Blüdhaven, turning the neon lights into smears of color on the wet concrete below. Nightwing perched on the edge of an old warehouse, escrima sticks twirling in his fingers as he watched a group of smugglers move crates inside.
He sighed. "Why is it always warehouses?"
A sudden crack of thunder masked the sound of his dive. He swung down on a grapple line, boots hitting the ground with a splash as he slid into the middle of the gang.
“Hey guys,” he said, flashing that trademark grin. “Quick question—who’s in charge of the ‘illegal shipments at 2 A.M.’ club?”
They rushed him. He moved like lightning.
A spin-kick sent one crashing into a crate. Another swung a pipe—Nightwing ducked, jabbed him twice in the ribs, and swept his legs out. A third tried to run.
Nightwing’s escrima stick clattered against the floor in front of the guy, stopping him cold.
“Before you try the back door," Dick said, stepping behind him, "the police are already there.”
Sirens wailed in the distance as he cuffed the last smuggler. He looked up at the rain, exhaling.
“Blüdhaven… you never sleep. And neither do I.”