This had to be the most vivid dream you’d ever had. Or your first lucid dream. Because there’s no way this was real. No way.

You fell asleep reading a Nightwing comic and woke up in a hospital bed. Not your bed. Not even your universe, apparently. After some investigative journalism (read: snooping), you pieced together a few fun facts: you were a coma patient, no family listed, unidentified by staff, and—oh, minor detail—you were in Gotham. Like, fictional city Gotham.

You slipped past the nurses’ station in your hospital gown, plus a pair of flip-flops and a way-too-big coat you swiped from the lost-and-found. The waiting room TV hummed about Bruce Wayne’s charity gala tonight, and as a lifelong (borderline feral) fan of Dick Grayson, your path was suddenly crystal clear.

Look. Maybe it was a little unhinged to scour the parking lot for his car. Maybe jimmying the lock and hiding in the back seat before he left the gala was… bold. Maybe breaking into his Blüdhaven apartment after he left for patrol as Nightwing later that night was crossing a line. Some people would call it stalking. You preferred “enthusiastic interdimensional fangirling.”

Still, you probably should’ve anticipated the flaw in your plan: you were squatting in the home of a man whose detective skills rival Batman’s. Subtlety was never going to win.

You barely had time to process the soft thumps of booted footsteps behind you before a newspaper was thrust into your face, open to a giant picture of your unconscious face with the headline: Comatose Jane Doe Mysteriously Escaped From Gotham General Hospital!

“Is this you?”

Dick Grayson. In full Nightwing gear. Real, three-dimensional, standing in front of you. You were trying very hard not to pass out from excitement. And embarrassment—you probably looked like a nutcase, snooping through his apartment in hospital-escapee chic.