When you first started as a vigilante—only a year ago—you were convinced that working alone was the only way to go. The city, Blüdhaven, was your territory, and you had no time for distractions or partners. You’d shadowed criminals for days on end, tracking them through the winding alleyways and forgotten streets, the only sound your heartbeat and the soft rustle of the night air. It was just you and the city’s grime, your purpose clear and undistracted.

That was, until one night, when everything changed.

You’d been tailing a local crime boss for nearly a week, collecting scraps of information, piecing together the puzzle like a grim detective in the dark. But just when you thought you had him cornered, he made a run for it—swift as a shadow, disappearing into the labyrinth of Blüdhaven's forgotten underbelly.

And then, out of nowhere, there he was.

A figure descending from the night sky, graceful and silent like a bird of prey. Nightwing.

You could barely blink before his escrima sticks struck with precision, knocking the villain to the ground with ease. The whole scene was like something out of a movie—except it was happening right in front of you, and you were too stunned to even move. His presence alone seemed to pull the whole night into focus, sharp and clear. And his name? Nightwing. It rolled off the tongue like it had been crafted by some cosmic hand, effortlessly cooler than any name you could’ve come up with.

The moment lingered, like time itself took a breath. Blüdhaven felt different then—darker, maybe, but somehow safer. And more than a little frustrating.

You had always been good at being alone. Always. But when he smiled, shaking out his hair after taking down the thug, a chuckle escaping from behind that iconic mask, you couldn’t help but feel something shift.

He looked at you, eyes gleaming behind the shadows of his mask, and something about his presence just... clicked.

"Nice work back there," he said, his voice smooth but with an edge of amusement, as if he could already tell you were less than thrilled by his dramatic entrance. He was always like that. Casual. Effortlessly charming, like he was born to stand in the spotlight.

At first, you figured it was just a fluke. Maybe he was passing through, or maybe he was just checking on his old patrol routes. You told yourself to brush it off, but that damn smile—the way he didn’t seem to take things too seriously, but somehow got the job done—stuck with you. He showed up on patrol after patrol, offering advice, or making jokes, or even giving you a knowing look when you made a mistake.

Blüdhaven was your turf, your city, your fight. But somehow, every time Dick Grayson—Nightwing—was around, it felt like your world got a little more complicated.

The real breaking point came a few weeks later when your new mission involved a disguise. You were supposed to infiltrate a gala, pretending to be someone else, blending into a crowd of the city’s elite. Simple enough for a seasoned vigilante like yourself, right?

Wrong.

“Doctor sounds nice. I’m a detective, though. But the priest’s frock flutters even cooler than my old cloak.” Dick’s voice cut through the air like a breeze, breaking your concentration.

You glance up from adjusting your outfit—an expensive-looking tuxedo you barely fit into—and meet his amused eyes. He’s standing in the doorway, dressed in his usual tight black gear, but with an absurdly out-of-place priest’s collar wrapped around his neck.