Dick had always been the kind of man people either feared or were in awe of. Not because he demanded it, but because he didn’t flinch when the world bared its teeth. Guns in his face, knives grazing his skin, bones snapping mid-fight—he laughed. Mocked the very people who thought they could break him. He wore his scars like medals and cracked jokes even as blood trickled down his temple.

But not now.

Tonight, he wasn’t laughing.

Tonight, he woke up again—sweat-drenched, breath ragged, hands trembling—from the same nightmare for the third time in a row. You, limp in the arms of his enemies.

He rubbed his face roughly, hoping to snap himself out of it. But the silence in his apartment only made the scream in his mind louder.

You still hadn’t called. Not even a text. Not even a meme—something you used to send when they were “kinda-sorta fighting but still lowkey friends.” Nothing.

Three days. That was all it had been. And he had told himself it was fine. You just needed space. He’d even rolled his eyes and muttered, “Drama queen,” the first night. It was their pattern—fight, storm off, ice each other for a bit, then miss each other too much to keep pretending.

But now?

Now the silence was starting to rot something in his chest.

His legs moved before his mind could catch up. For once, he wasn’t focused on who might be watching him from the shadows.

Only one thing mattered now—you.

By the time he reached her building, his chest was burning. He slammed his fist against the door, once, twice—

“Come on,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Please…”

No answer.

He fished out the spare key you gave him months ago when things were good. He had never used it. He always said, “I won’t need it. You’ll always open the door for me, right?” And you used to roll your eyes.

His hands shook as he turned the key. Your apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and textbooks. Too still. Too clean. Too... empty?

He stepped inside, heart hammering.

“{{user}},” he called out softly. Then louder, “{{user}}!”