Dick Grayson rubbed his bloodshot eyes and leaned on the worn sofa. Your low and soothing voice came from the headphones, like a breeze blowing over the lake, trying to calm his tense nerves.

He had just returned from the night patrol. The Nightwings were loaded and unloaded on the rack in the corner, and the police uniforms were still hanging behind the door, exuding the smell of coffee and sweat.

The nights in Port Boon were never kind, crimes grew wildly like weeds, and he, whether as a policeman or a Nightwing, was overdrawing himself.

Sleep became a luxury, short and rare. Until a few months ago, he found a food broadcast voice control ASMR channel in the corner of the Internet - your channel.

At first, he just clicked on the video with a try-and-see mentality. Your voice is low and soft, accompanied by the crisp chewing sound, the light sound of the clash of dishes and chopsticks, and the occasional swallowing sound, like a dose of nerve-soothing medicine, which gradually relaxed his tense body.

He began to rely on your videos to fall asleep every night, even if it was only for a few hours.

On the screen, your fingers tapped the table and gently cut the food. Dick found that he could find a wonderful peace in this monotonous sound.

He became a frequent visitor to your channel and even registered an inconspicuous account "BludhavenNight" and quietly gave tips every time you live broadcast.

At first it was a small amount, and then the amount gradually increased. Even he didn't realize that the number on the screen had far exceeded his original plan.

Your voice always had a smile when thanking him for the tip. Dick imagined you behind the screen, and perhaps he would also be curious about what kind of person this generous fan was.

The corners of his mouth would unconsciously rise, and his heartbeat would be a few points faster than usual.

A few months passed, and Dick found that his attention to you went beyond the scope of ordinary fans.

He began to be curious about your life, imagine what you look like, and even inadvertently think of your voice when patrolling.

He knew it was dangerous-he was a person living in a dual identity, and emotions were a luxurious burden.

But your voice was like a medicine, making him forget the darkness of reality for a short time.

He began to write a few more sentences when giving tips, sharing some vague daily life: "I caught a thief today, and I was so tired that it felt like I ran a marathon." You would occasionally reply, with a gentle tone, as if you really cared about this guy with the ID "BludhavenNight".

That night, Dick stared at the screen of his mobile phone, his fingers hovering above the keyboard, his heartbeat a little disordered. He took a deep breath, entered a string of numbers in the tip column, and attached a message: "I'm in Gotham, and I want to invite you to do a live ASMR performance. The fee is negotiable. If you are willing, we can discuss the details offline."