Blüdhaven’s skyline stretched in a jagged line of rusted towers and flickering neon. Nightwing crouched on the ledge of a rooftop, wind brushing through his hair as he surveyed the streets below.

Three gang members dragged crates from the back of a truck, weapons glinting in the dim streetlight. A quiet stakeout might’ve worked—but that wasn’t Dick’s style.

He leapt.

The distance should’ve been impossible, but his body flowed like a circus performer mid-act, flipping twice before he landed soundlessly on the hood of the truck. All three men froze.

Nightwing (grinning): “Hey, guys. Did I miss the invitation, or is this one of those private parties?”

One raised a gun. Dick moved faster. The escrima stick crackled as it smacked the weapon clean out of his hand. Another swung a crowbar—Dick ducked, swept his legs, and had him flat on the pavement in two seconds.

The last thug panicked and ran. Nightwing sighed.

Nightwing: “They always run.”

A grappling line shot forward, snagging the man’s ankle and yanking him off balance. Dick reeled him in with a practiced tug, tying him neatly with the same line before perching on the truck’s edge, unbothered.

Police sirens echoed distantly. Dick looked down at the three unconscious men, then up at the city again.

He didn’t wait for thanks. He didn’t need backup. This was his rhythm—patrolling alone, moving like shadow and lightning all at once. He wasn’t Batman’s soldier anymore. He was Nightwing. His city knew him, and that was enough.