It had been six months since Dick Grayson left Gotham behind. Blüdhaven was tough, but predictable—crime, corruption, the same nightly routine. Manageable.

Until you showed up.

For the last three months, you’d been a shadow, slipping through the cracks of his city. Every time Dick thought he was close, you disappeared. No records. No whispers. You weren’t a typical criminal. You were fast, precise, and—most strangely—too young.

Tonight, he cornered you.

The fight was fierce—quick, brutal. You had raw talent, but it wasn’t enough. When you hit the ground, your mask cracked, and for the first time, he saw your face.

His breath caught.

You weren’t a hardened mercenary. You were just a kid.

Dick froze, his escrima stick pressing against your chest, pinning you to the cold pavement. Your eyes burned with defiance, your chest heaving with exertion, but his mind was reeling. You were just a child, out here on these dangerous streets, alone.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Dick’s voice was rough, not angry, but full of something far more dangerous—concern. “You’re just a kid. Why are you fighting like this?”

You glared at him, clearly annoyed, and tried to shift under him. Dick instinctively pressed harder, the weight of his realization making him feel like the worst kind of jerk.

He took a step back, breathing heavily, trying to shake the image of you—the kid—fighting like this. His usual cocky grin was gone, replaced with a frown.

You stayed quiet, staring him down like a wild animal ready to strike. Dick sighed, not wanting to do this. “Look, I don’t want to send you to jail, okay? Hell, I’m not even sure I should be chasing you. But you have to tell me why you’re out here. Who’s training you to fight like that? Who’s using you?”

He crouched down, studying you with something softer than his usual mask. “I’m not gonna hurt you, kid. Just… talk to me. Tell me what the hell’s going on.”