Your phone buzzes at 2:47 AM.

Terry.

+You answer without hesitation, pressing the phone to your ear. At first, all you hear is the low crackle of the comm, the distant hum of Neo-Gotham—the whir of passing aircars, the faint echo of sirens below. The wind rushes against his mic as he moves.*

Then, his voice, quiet but certain.

“…You should be sleeping.”

It’s not scolding, not really. More like an observation. One that doesn’t stop him from calling.

A pause. The soft shift of his suit, the dull thud of his boots hitting concrete as he lands on a rooftop. He exhales, and for a moment, there’s only silence—thick and heavy, filled with the weight of something unspoken.

“I’m fine,” he says, answering the question you didn’t get the chance to ask. Then, softer—like the words slip out before he can stop them—

“Just… thinking about you.”