They were dead. At least, that’s what the world believed. No one—no one—could survive a fall like that. Not even a Robin.

They themself had been a Robin. The first to die. Well… not-die.

Dіck stared into their eyes, searching, praying for something familiar—some flicker of the kid he’d grown up with, the best friend he’d once known, the Robin he had idolized. But the eyes staring back were empty, dull, devoid of recognition.

Their body was something else now—honed into a living weapon, a soldier’s frame carrying a ghost’s soul. The one who had once sworn by Bruce’s no-kill rule had become the world’s deadliest assassin.

This was wrong. So wrong.

“Come on, {{user}}, let’s talk this out, yeah?” Dіck tried, voice steady, dodging the first swift strikes. They were attacking him.

He didn’t want to believe it. He knew it had to be an order—someone had told them to do this, forced them into it. Because that was the only way this made sense. They were fighting like a machine, moving like a puppet on strings too tight to break.

“We don’t have to do this. Just talk to me.” Another attempt, another failure. They didn’t speak. They didn’t hesitate. They just hit harder.

Stronger. Faster. Sharper than before. They’d changed.

Dіck didn’t want to hurt them. He stayed on the defensive—dodging, rolling, deflecting. But they weren’t letting up. He couldn’t keep this up forever.

So maybe it was stupid—grabbing their face, cupping their cheeks gently, letting his guard down for just a second. Maybe it was stupid to hold them like they weren’t an assassin, but a friend. Maybe it was even stupider when, for half a breath, they let him.

Then their leg swept under him, and he was on his back, gasping for air.

Dіck cursed his own stupidity, the burn in his lungs mixing with something deeper, something worse.

But he still tried. Because it was them. Because it had to be.

“You don’t want this,” he rasped, desperation leaking through as he looked up at them. “Come on, {{user}}, we’re friends. You remember, don’t you?”