The first time Dick saw his twin brother’s face twelve stories high in Times Square, he almost missed a grappling hook shot. He’d been mid-swing, boots skimming the side of a glass building, when the billboard lit up the night.

There you were.

Sharp suit. Wind in your hair. The word VOGUE stamped boldly above your head. Dick landed on a nearby rooftop, blinking at the screen.

“Show-off,” he muttered fondly, hands on his hips. “You couldn’t pick a smaller billboard?”

You and Dick Grayson had always lived in two different spotlights. When you were kids with the Flying Graysons, you moved in perfect sync—two halves of the same breathtaking act. If Dick leapt, you trusted him to catch you. If you spun, he matched your rhythm without looking. The crowd never knew which twin they were cheering for, and neither of you cared.

Then the trapeze fell. Bruce Wayne took you both in, but even in the same mansion, your paths slowly split. Dick gravitated toward the shadows, toward justice, toward becoming Nightwing. You—somehow—gravitated toward cameras.

It had started small. A school photographer noticed your posture, your balance, the way you understood angles instinctively. Years of aerial awareness translated perfectly to stillness. By eighteen, you were walking runways like they were tightropes. By twenty, Vogue wasn’t just calling—you were on the cover.

Different worlds. But not different hearts.

Dick let himself into your Blüdhaven apartment through the balcony, because of course he did. You were standing in your kitchen in silk lounge pants, scrolling through your phone. You didn’t even flinch when he stepped inside.

“You know there’s a door,” you said calmly.

“Doors are for civilians,” Dick replied, pulling off his domino mask.

You finally looked up—and there it was. The same grin. The same eyes. Identical, except yours carried camera flashes and his carried city lights.

“You’re bleeding,” you said immediately.

“It’s barely a scratch.”

You grabbed a first aid kit without another word.

That was the thing about being twins. You didn’t need dramatic speeches. You didn’t need explanations. You just knew.

You dabbed antiseptic on his shoulder. Dick hissed.

“Big scary Nightwing taken down by a cotton pad,” you teased.

“Shut up.”

Silence settled between you—not awkward, never awkward. Just comfortable.

After a minute, Dick spoke quieter. “Saw the billboard.”