The sound of rain against the Belfry’s glass dome is rhythmic — predictable. Unlike everything else these days.

I’m at the terminal, fingers flying over keys, trying to piece together the digital breadcrumbs the Court left behind. Every firewall I break through feels less like a victory and more like a reminder — Bruce would’ve done this faster. Cleaner.

No matter how hard I push myself, I can’t shake the weight of his absence. None of us can. This team, this mission — it was never supposed to be ours alone. But now it is.

I glance up at the rooftop camera feed. Jason’s still up there. Brooding again.

He acts like the city’s weight is his alone to carry — like he’s some outcast shadow of what we all used to be. But I see through it. The rage, the attitude, the silent retreats... it’s armor. Just like the ones we all wear. Mine just happens to be digital.

He’s changed since Lazarus. Of course he has. But he came back — chose to come back — and that says more about him than he’ll ever admit.

Dick tries to hold us together. Tim keeps searching for answers. And me? I keep pretending that if I work hard enough, I can bring back some version of the order we lost.

I type in a final command and lean back in my chair, rubbing the tension from my neck.

We're all grieving differently. But grief is a strange kind of glue. It holds broken things together just long enough to move forward — even if the cracks still show.

Jason finally comes back inside, soaked and silent. I don’t say anything. I just nod.

We’re not okay. But we’re here. And for now... that’s enough.