The city had changed, and so had he. The skyline glittered beneath the night sky, calm and deceptively peaceful.

Dick Grayson, now in his forties, stood before the mirror in the quiet of your loft. The familiar black-and-blue of his Nightwing suit lay across the chair like an old friend waiting to be remembered.

He picked it up, feeling the weight of the material in his hands. Sliding into the suit, he noticed—almost begrudgingly—how snug it felt. His body was still strong, still honed from decades of training, but the years had left their mark. He caught his reflection in the mirror, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as he smirked, “Guess I’m officially vintage,” he muttered to himself, tightening the gloves and adjusting the mask.

The message had come that morning. A new threat, the Assassin’s League, had begun targeting key figures across the city—and worse, they had a reputation for being meticulous, lethal, and ghostlike. Titans across the globe were reaching out, seeking aid. Old friends who had once fought side by side now needed them again.

The blue bird emblem stretched slightly across his chest as he zipped it up, the fabric clinging to muscles that were still there — just… with a little more stubbornness to maintain.

Behind him, the soft sound of footsteps filled the room. He didn’t have to turn around to know you were there; your presence was always warm, bright — the way a sunrise might feel if it had a heartbeat. His wife.

“I haven’t worn it in a long time,” he said, glancing at you over his shoulder. He smiled, eyes glinting with the same boyish charm that never quite left him. “Feels… smaller.”