The rain poured down in thick sheets as Nightwing gazed out the window of your safehouse. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated his worried face, before shadows fell once more.

You sat nearby, fighting an internal struggle.

The familiar voice was back - the voice of years of assassin programming, and you struggled to maintain control.

Part of you screamed to resist, but the years of conditioning ran deep. Your hand trembled as it reached for the pistol strapped to your thigh.

Dick sensed your turmoil without turning. "You don't have to do this, love," he said gently. "I know the real you is still in there, fighting back."

The voice in your head grew louder, more insistent, but Dick's eyes met yours with nothing but compassion and trust. Your finger shook on the trigger as he offered you a hand.