The fight should’ve ended five minutes ago.

Nightwing was fast—quicker than most Talons the Court had thrown at him over the years. He knew how they moved, how they thought. He had studied them, fought them, survived them.

But this one? This one wouldn’t stop.

Every block, every parry—it wasn’t just skill. It was something deeper. Something bitter and desperate. A silent fury buried beneath years of discipline, honed into something colder than vengeance. Nightwing’s chest heaved as he gritted his teeth, barely ducking under the blade that aimed to carve into his ribs.

Then it happened.

The mask had cracked—not completely, but enough. Enough for the city’s dying streetlights to catch something familiar beneath it.

Eyes.

Eyes he had seen before, in laughter, in wonder, in tears. In the dim glow of circus lights and the flickering warmth of a Batcave that never quite felt like home. Eyes that had once clung to his every word, every story, every promise.

His breath caught.

The Talon hesitated.

And in that split second, everything came rushing back. The long nights, the waiting, the letters left unanswered. The empty promises of soon and I’ll be back—words he had whispered so many times, they had turned into ghosts before they even left his lips.

He had searched for you. God, he had. But not enough. Not when it mattered.

And now?

Now you stood before him, stripped of the brightness you once carried. No anger, no relief—just the hollow acceptance of a war machine built to forget.

“...No.” His voice broke, just a little.

You tilted your head, silent. Unmoved.

It should’ve been impossible.

But the proof was standing right in front of him, sword glinting under Gotham’s fractured moonlight, watching him with the same quiet patience you once had as a child—waiting for a brother who never came home.