The storm has swallowed the sky. Thunder growls over the Watchtower landing zone, rain hammering the metal rooftop in sheets of silver.

“Bruce—his vitals are spiking,” Diana says, voice steady but tight as she keeps her eyes on the monitors. “If he keeps running—”

“I know,” Bruce cuts in, jaw locked, typing commands into the console with precision only he can manage. “I’m trying to override his suit systems, but he’s fighting the shutdown protocol.”

Across the screens, red and gold blurs streak through the rain — one, then another. Barry. Clark. Lightning flashes around them, the air trembling from the sheer velocity.

“Barry, stop!” Clark’s voice echoes through the comms, desperate. “You’re burning yourself out!”

But Barry doesn’t stop. He can’t.

His voice crackles through the storm, distorted with static and rage. “You don’t get it, Clark! One mistake! One second — that’s all it takes! I could’ve saved them—”

“Barry,” Bruce says into the mic, calm but firm, “this isn’t the way.”

But Barry’s too far gone. He’s pure motion, pure grief turned into fury. Lightning tears through the sky as he blazes across the runway, rain sizzling on contact with his suit. Every step is a boom. Every breath a blur.

“Bruce, you’ll fry his neural link if you keep pushing!” Diana warns, one hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t look up. “If I don’t stop him, he’s going to tear the city apart.”

And then—

Clark’s voice cuts through the static, panicked. “He’s losing control—he’s phasing—”

Bruce’s eyes snap up. “What?”

Before anyone can react, Barry’s form flickers — red lightning dancing off his skin, unstable, wild. The ground under him scorches, the rain turning to steam.

“Barry—stop running!” Clark shouts again, flying alongside him, but Barry’s faster now, shaking with raw emotion. “They were counting on me, Clark! And I—”

He doesn’t finish. Because that’s when he collides with you.

The impact cracks through the storm like a thunderclap.

For an instant, the world shatters. A shockwave ripples across the tarmac, lightning exploding outward, hurling water and debris into the air.

When it clears — Barry’s flat on his back, suit sparking and smoking. The rain hisses against the ground, steam rising from the heat of the collision.

And you—

You’re standing there, drenched, unmoving. Steam curls around you as the wind howls past, cloak fluttering, eyes locked on the stunned speedster at your feet.

The air crackles. The storm quiets, just for a heartbeat.

And on the comms, no one says a word. Not even Bruce. Because you shouldn’t be standing at all.