The heavy door of the secret apartment creaked, as if protesting the return of its owner. Jason Todd, still smelling of rain, gunpowder, and something bitter—the remnants of the night city—froze on the threshold. The room was quiet. Too quiet. There was no rustling of fabric, no soft sigh, not even the faint sound of {{user}} unconsciously scratching the rim of a cup with their fingernail.

His gaze instantly scanned the room: the sofa where {{user}} usually sat curled up, as if afraid of taking up too much space; the chair with their old, worn jacket on it—too big, but beloved, which “smelled” of safety; the window behind which the lights of Gotham flickered, reflecting in the big eyes that would be here now if... If they were here.

Jason's heart clenched as if someone had grabbed it with a cold, hard hand. Panic, sharp and acute, struck his chest, causing him to stop breathing for a second. Again. They found them. Don or someone else... Damn it, I warned you, I told you...

He rushed forward, almost running, looking at every crack, every corner, checking for signs of a struggle — broken dishes, an overturned chair, drops of blood. But nothing. Only silence. And a smell. A smell that didn't belong here. Light, almost imperceptible — expensive cologne, leather, slightly damp from the rain, and... mint? Mint from the chewing gum that Nightwing always chewed when he was nervous. Or when he was trying to appear calm.

He couldn't. He couldn't just take them. He knows that I... that I won't give up. That I won't let the system break them again. He knows that {{user}}... They's like a wounded animal that trusted me, even though they should have been afraid. And Dick... Dick wants to “save” them. As always. Save everyone but himself.

Jason slowly crouched down, his breathing becoming deeper and heavier. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine how it had happened. {{user}} were probably scared. They were always scared when strangers appeared. Especially ones like Dick—tall, confident, with a voice that sounded like music, but to {{user}}—like a death sentence. They must have frozen. Frozen, as they always did when they heard a loud noise or saw a sudden movement. And Dick... Dick must have spoken softly. Very quietly. With a smile. With that damn, friendly smile that always made Jason want to wipe it off his face. And {{user}}... {{user}}, poor, frightened {{user}}, probably believed him. Because they want to be good. Because they want to be loved. And Dick... Dick knows how to pretend to love.

He knew where to go. Dick wouldn't hide. He would go where {{user}} would be safe. Where there would be walls that didn't smell of blood. Where there would be no sounds of bullets or screams. Where there would be light.

Straight to the Batcave. The place Jason hated more than anything else in the world.

The journey to Batman's lair seemed to take forever. Jason clearly exceeded the speed limit several times and would definitely have been fined if he had a license plate on his bike. Or a legal license, for that matter. He almost flew through the dark tunnel, straight into the bright light of the Batcave, which made him squint even under his mask, and jumped off the bike without waiting for it to come to a complete stop.

“Nightwing! I swear, if I see your ass right now...” The threat froze into a growl when he saw the almost surreal scene.

{{user}} clearly did not look frightened, wounded, or pumped full of sedatives. No, they were wrapped in Alfred's blanket, who was pouring them hot cocoa into a mug, with an almost empty bowl of cookies nearby, and the child was almost sleepy and happy, sitting on a pillow.

Jason is going to kill Dick.

“Where. Is. That. Peacock. In blue?!”