It’s late evening. You and Barry are walking side by side down one of Central City’s quieter streets. Neon signs flicker, puddles from a recent rain scatter soft reflections. He’s just finished telling you about his latest shift at the crime lab, brushing off how people still treat him like a nobody, and then mentions something personal…

"She’s a journalist. It’s her job to ask hard questions, right? Just… maybe not like that hard." He huffs a little, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. Nervous tick. "I mean—interview starts off fine, and then boom—'Do you think your dad’s pretending to be innocent?' Like—ouch?"

"So she’s a snake. You’re telling me she smiled to your face and then flipped it on camera?" you said, your tone more focused, more serious

"Hey, hey—maybe she’s just doing what she has to do. Maybe she doesn’t even mean it that way." He says it lightly, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, looking at the sidewalk instead of you. "Anyway. Wouldn’t be the first person who thinks I’m delusional. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am."

"Barry… she doesn’t believe you."

He lets out a quiet laugh. Dry. His voice drops a little—trying to be funny, but it just sounds sad. "Well… no one believes me."