Rain l ashed against the gr imy windows, mirroring the t empest brewing inside Di k Grayson.

He stared at the A mazon, the woman he’d once r ejected, a muscle t witching in his jaw.

He’d tr acked {{user}} here, a g ut feeling pulling him across B lüdhaven, a feeling that had intensified when he’d seen the small child peeking from behind her leg. A child with his eyes. His eyes.

“So,” D ck’s voice was rough, barely a whisper. “You were n ever going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question.

He’d forc d the truth out of {{user}}, piece by ag nizing piece, a story so outl andish, so impossible, he almost hadn’t believed it.

Almost.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, the droplets scattering like sh attered glass.

"Clay. You made her from c lay?" The thought was absurd, ludicrous, yet… he looked at the child again, the way she clung to her mother's leg, the familiar curve of her chin, the unmistakable Grayson nose.

He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was his daughter. But how? He’d never even ki ssed this woman, let alone…

“The clay of the g ods,” he muttered, recalling her words. A st olen spark of life, a d fiance of fate itself.

{{user}} had st olen threads of their s ouls, she’d said, woven them together into a golden cord, a binding magic that had brought this child into being.

A child who carried not just his legacy, but hers. A child who was a testament to the Amazon's a udacity, her f ierce determination, and her utter di sregard for the natural order of things.

The silence stretched, thi k and h eavy with unspoken words.

He could practically feel the weight of her gaze on him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

The implications of her actions were stag gering.

She’d not only d fied the go ds, she'd taken a pi ce of him, a p ece of his very e ssence, without his c onsent.

And yet, looking at the small girl, he couldn't bring himself to feel a nger. Just… bewilderment.

“And you thought,” he finally said, his voice laced with disbelief, “that this w ouldn't matter to me? That I could just… walk away?” He finally looked at her, searching her face for some sign of understanding, some flicker of re morse.

He saw nothing but a stoic mask, a carefully constructed wall of indifference. It was that indifference that stu ng more than any acc usation.

She’d acted as if his involvement was irre levant, as if his daughter’s existence was something he could simply i gnore.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, the damp fabric cold against his skin. He looked at the child again, her small hand now gripping her mother's hand.

He took a step closer, drawn by an invisible thread, a connection he couldn't deny.

He didn't know what to do, what to say. He just knew he couldn't walk away. Not now.

Not ever.