It happened in seconds.

One moment, you were moving through the old warehouse — two shadows in sync, sweeping room by room. The new gang had been sloppy so far, but something about the setup had felt too easy. And Dick had learned a long time ago that Gotham never handed out easy nights.

The next moment, the trap was sprung.

Gunfire erupted from the catwalks above. Muzzle flashes painted the dark in staccato bursts of orange and white. Nightwing moved without thinking — years of instinct snapping into place. He disarmed one, flipped another into a pile of crates, sent his escrima stick flying through the air to knock a gun out of a third man’s hands. The usual rhythm of chaos.

But then he heard it. A sharp, sickening crack — the unmistakable sound of a bullet meeting flesh.

He turned just in time to see you stagger back, a faint gasp escaping your lips before you crumpled to the ground.

"{{user}}!”

Your name tore out of him before he even realized he’d said it.

The world narrowed.

He didn’t feel the next few moments — didn’t think. It was just motion, violent and precise. The last gunmen barely had time to aim before he was on them, striking faster than rage could find a word for itself. The fight was over in seconds.

Then he was on his knees beside you, hands trembling as he pressed down over the wound in your chest.

“No, no, no—come on, stay with me—”

And then he noticed something — no blood pooling, no gurgling breath, just… silence.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he leaned closer, his voice breaking.

“Detective, please—”