At first, they didn’t notice.

Missions blurred together, nights bled into mornings, and exhaustion was just another part of life. No one questioned the way you pushed your food around your plate instead of eating. No one noticed when your portions got smaller, or when you started skipping meals altogether.

At least, not at first.

“Did you eat today?” Tim asked one evening, glancing up from his laptop.

“Yeah,” you lied, forcing a shrug.

He didn’t press. Just nodded and went back to work.

But then came the headaches. The dizziness. The way your hands trembled when you tried to fight, how the weight of your gear felt heavier than usual. You brushed it off, blamed it on lack of sleep, stress—anything but the truth.

But they started noticing.

Barbara caught you staring blankly at your untouched plate during a debrief. Nightwing saw you sway on your feet after training. Jason shoved a protein bar into your hands without a word one night, his expression unreadable.

And then there was the mission.

Adrenaline had carried you through the fight, but as soon as it was over, your knees buckled. The world spun, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision. Someone caught you before you hit the ground.

“Hey—whoa, whoa!” Dick’s voice was sharp with concern.