He’d followed the trail to a quiet part of Gotham’s Diamond District — too quiet.

The brownstone looked abandoned from the outside: no lights, no cameras, no guards. But the intel had been clear — someone was operating out of here. Someone smart enough to keep a low profile but not smart enough to avoid Nightwing’s radar.

He picked the lock with ease. Silent. Quick.

Inside, it was… elegant. Unexpected. Velvet drapes, antique books, a strange mix of perfume and incense in the air. A record spun softly on a vintage player in the corner, some haunting French melody he didn’t recognize.

This wasn’t a hideout.

It was a home.

He stepped forward cautiously, eyes scanning for traps, clues, anything—

“Are you looking for something? Or someone?”

The voice came from behind him. Smooth, amused.

He turned fast.

She was standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the warm golden glow of a hallway light. Her posture was relaxed, dressed in silk. She looked absolutely divine.

Dick hadn’t noticed her beauty right away—he was focused on his surroundings. “No, I was—” he began, then stopped. He did notice. And for a split second, it threw him.

“…What was I doing?” he muttered, blinking, trying to reorient himself.

She descended the stairs slowly, catlike. “How would I know?” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk. “You’re the one who broke into my house.”