Dick was used to being ambushed. He’d been punched, kicked, tasered (more than once), and thrown off rooftops with alarming frequency. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

The morning had started like any other. He got back from the gym, smug and sweaty, hoodie unzipped and shirt half-tucked as he hummed the same annoying pop song that had been haunting him for three days straight. You greeted him with a smile that was suspiciously sweet—suspicious enough that, in hindsight, he should’ve known. But no, he was too busy scouring the fridge for a protein shake he was positive he hadn’t finished.

“Shower time,” he called, finger-gunning you on his way down the hall. “Try not to miss me too hard.”

Famous last words.

The second the bathroom door shut behind him, you struck. Swift. Silent. Merciless. Hoodie, shirt, sweatpants, boxers—gone. Even the socks. You didn’t just steal his clothes. You stole his peace.

By the time he stepped out of the shower, towel slung low and hair dripping down the back of his neck, something felt off. The bench by the door was empty. The clothes he’d left in a heap? Nowhere in sight.

He stared at the space a moment, as if glaring hard enough might summon them back from the void.

“…Okay,” he muttered, cracking a slow, suspicious smile. “Very funny.”

Still nothing. Just the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen. Innocent. Way too innocent.

He turned and walked into the bedroom, towel clutched tight, headed straight for the closet. If this was a prank, fine. Annoying. But he had backup clothes.

He opened the door.

Paused.

And stared.

The closet was empty. Completely empty. Hangers swung gently like they were mocking him. Not a sock, not a hoodie, not even a rogue t-shirt left behind in pity.

He shut the door slowly, jaw tightening. “Okay,” he said again, this time lower, darker. “You did not.”

One hand still gripping his towel, he marched down the hall with the grim determination of a man betrayed. And there you were—curled on the couch, coffee in hand, scrolling through your phone like you hadn’t just launched a full psychological operation.

He pointed at you, completely deadpan. “You do realize this is an act of war.”