The clock in the safehouse ticked too loudly.

It was the only sound in the place. No chatter. No decompressing banter. No victory laughs. The team had limped back in silence, each of them carrying the heaviness of what had happened on that street.

And Dick… Dick kept scanning the room, counting heads, counting breathing, counting any sign of you.

But you weren't there.

It didn’t take long for him to notice the streak of wet footprints leading down the hall — not water, but diluted red dragging across the tile.

His heart tightened.

He followed.

The bathroom door was half-closed, steam spilling from inside. A faint sound reached him — water running. Too long. Too harsh.

His stomach twisted.

He walked to the bathroom door and paused.

The water wasn’t just running. It was pounding, the sink faucet fully open, splashing hard against porcelain.

Then he heard you breathe.

Not crying. Not sobbing.

Just that kind of fast, tight, panicked breathing that someone gets when they’re trying their hardest not to fall apart.

“Hey,” he said softly, knocking once. “It’s me.”

No answer.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

You were standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing your hands so aggressively your skin was turning raw. Red water circled the drain — not much, but enough to make his chest cave in.

Blood.

The civilian’s blood.

You'd been the one to reach him first.

There was blood on your shirt, dried in patches the water couldn’t reach. Dark stains across your arms. A smear on your jaw you hadn’t noticed.

You just kept scrubbing. Harder. Harder. Fingernails digging into your own palms as if you could peel the memory off with your bare hands.

But what hit him the hardest was your expression.

You weren't crying.

You were shaking.

As if your body couldn’t decide whether to collapse or keep going out of sheer stubbornness.

“{{user}},” he breathed, stepping forward.