The first thing you notice about Dick Grayson is that he’s trying too hard.

Not in the charming, overachiever way people usually describe him. Not in the “former circus kid turned golden boy” kind of way Gotham worships him for.

It’s smaller than that.

Too precise.

Too practiced.

He laughs half a second too late when people tell jokes. He blinks without moisture gathering in his eyes. He stands completely still when nobody’s talking to him, like he forgets movement is something people do naturally. Sometimes you catch him staring at crowds—not looking at them, studying them.

And worst of all?

He never seems tired.

Not really.

At first, you convince yourself you’re paranoid. Gotham does that to people. You grow up learning how to read danger before danger speaks. But your instincts keep clawing at you whenever Dick enters a room.

Everyone else adores him.

He remembers birthdays. Holds doors open. Smiles like sunlight. Helps old ladies cross the street. He’s almost offensively perfect.

But perfection in Gotham is usually the first warning sign.

You start avoiding him without meaning to. Leaving rooms when he enters. Taking different hallways through Wayne Manor. Pretending not to hear him when he calls your name.

Then you start carrying the pocket knife.

Nothing dramatic. Just a small concealed blade hidden in your jacket pocket at all times. You tell yourself it’s stupid, but your hand still checks for it whenever Dick gets too close.

Because sometimes—

Sometimes he moves wrong.

You’ll glance at him and suddenly he’s standing six feet closer than he was a second ago, without footsteps. Without transition. Like your brain skipped frames.

Sometimes you’ll catch him smiling at absolutely nothing.

Not happily.

Just… practicing.

And then the Batfamily starts noticing too.

Jason is the first one to say it out loud.

“He doesn’t breathe enough.”

Everyone laughs it off at dinner, but afterward you notice Tim watching Dick carefully from across the cave. Counting. Measuring.

Cass avoids physical contact with him entirely.

Damian’s animals hate him.

Even Bruce starts studying him when Dick isn’t looking.

The tension in the manor grows slowly, like water rising in a locked room. Nobody wants to accuse Dick of anything because this is Dick. The heart of the family. The safe one.

But weird things keep happening.

The security cameras glitch whenever Dick passes by.

Barbara finds files in the Batcomputer that nobody remembers creating—psychological breakdowns of every member of the family, updated daily.

Alfred’s old silverware starts disappearing.

And one night, you wake up to find Dick standing outside your bedroom door.

Not knocking.

Just standing there.

Still.

The pocket knife is in your hand before you even realize you grabbed it.

Dick tilts his head when he notices.

Not offended.

Curious.

Like he’s trying to understand why you’re afraid.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says softly.

You don’t answer.

The hallway light flickers once.

Dick smiles, but it never reaches his eyes.

“I’m getting better,” he says. “I know I am.”

That’s when you realize the horrifying part isn’t that Dick Grayson is dangerous.

It’s that whatever he is—

it genuinely wants to be human.

And it’s learning from all of you how to fake it better every day.