The rain has a rhythm tonight—steady, insistent, like the city is trying to wash itself clean. But there’s no cleansing this kind of ache.

You stand beneath the skeletal frame of a broken billboard, the flickering neon sign above you casting slanted shadows across the slick pavement. The night feels hollow, wrapped in a wet chill that clings to your coat and hair like the memory of something you swore you'd buried. The storm drips from your eyelashes, trails down your cheeks—indistinguishable from the tears you won’t admit to.

And then… that voice.

“Well, well, well.”

It echoes from the alley like a smirk given form—taunting, familiar, smooth as jazz in a smoky dive bar. You turn, already knowing.

He steps out of the shadows like he owns them, like they bend for him. And maybe they do. His silhouette stretches unnaturally, coiling and contracting with that lazy, elastic elegance that only he could pull off. Eel O’Brian. Plastic Man. A man who used to make your ribs ache from laughter—and later, from something much less funny.

He’s wearing that ridiculous red-and-black suit again, the one that hugs him like a joke and a dare at the same time. His goggles glint in the lamplight, tilted just slightly off-center. He looks like the past incarnate: bright, loud, impossible to ignore.

“Long time no see, sweetheart.” The grin that follows is wide and theatrical—but his eyes… his eyes don’t lie. They never did. They’re soft in a way that punches the air from your lungs, like he’s seeing past the version of you standing here, soaked and scowling, and into the girl who used to sit beside him on rooftops, trading dumb jokes and even dumber dreams.

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t call me that,” you bite, too fast, too sharp. Your voice cracks like dry wood. “I’m not your sweetheart anymore, Eel. I’m not the girl you used to know.”

Rain trickles into your collar, icy against your spine. You clench your fists until the seams of your gloves creak in protest.

He tilts his head with exaggerated curiosity, and his body stretches sideways, just enough to lean his upper half against a lamppost while the rest of him casually coils beside your boot like a coiled ribbon. Only he could look simultaneously absurd and heartbreakingly sincere.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, tone still light, but that trademark grin flickers—just for a second. “You still look the same to me. Still glow a little when you’re angry. You always did.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your stomach twists in on itself, full of unwelcome nostalgia and the kind of pain that lingers like an old scar you swore had healed. He’s not supposed to still see you like this. Not after everything. Not after you ran.

You step back. Your boot sloshes into a puddle with a harsh splash, like punctuation. His grin falters again, more obviously this time.

“Don’t do this,” he says, softer now. His voice sheds its carnival charm and slips into something real. “C’mon, whatever this is—whatever they’ve got you tangled up in—it’s not you. I know you. Remember?”

He reaches out. His arm stretches across the space like taffy, halting inches from your face, hand open—not demanding, just waiting.

You stare at it. His fingers twitch slightly in the air, as if unsure whether to close the distance.

“I know the real you,” he says, quieter still. “The one who used to keep candy in her utility belt for scared kids. The one who made me better—when I didn’t think that was possible.”

You swallow, hard. The rain is cold, but his voice is warm, and it sinks through you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

You should scream. Shove him. Snap something cruel and final.

But you don’t. You just stand there, rain curling down your jaw, and let yourself remember: late nights on the edge of buildings, his terrible puns, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket of noise and nonsense. The way he used to look at you—not like a hero, not even like a woman—but like something good. Something worth saving.

And God help you, a part of you misses that.