Rain slicked the rooftops of Gotham, turning every ledge into a mirror of fractured neon. Somewhere far below, a scream tried—and failed—to echo.

The warehouse loomed like a rotting tooth on the edge of the Narrows. Inside, the air reeked of rust, oil, and something coppery. Blood. Chains rattled softly with every strained movement you made, wrists burning where metal bit too tight. The room pulsed with dim, flickering light, shadows stretching and snapping like they were alive.

One of Black Mask’s goons paced nearby, bored but cruel in that casual Gotham way. A crowbar tapped rhythmically against his palm.

“Boss says you talk tonight,” he muttered, like it was already decided. “Or you don’t walk out at all.”

Footsteps echoed somewhere deeper in the building.

Then—

A crash above.

Glass shattered.

Lights flickered once—twice—

And went out.

Darkness swallowed everything whole.

A beat of silence.

Then a thud. Another. A grunt cut short.

By the time the emergency lights kicked back in, the goon near you was already down—crumpled like a dropped puppet.

And in his place—

A figure, outlined in electric blue.

Nightwing stood between you and the rest of the room, escrima sticks humming faintly as he spun one in his hand like it weighed nothing at all.

“…Wow,” he said, voice light—too light for a room like this. “You really know how to pick terrible hangout spots.”

Another body dropped somewhere behind him.

Nightwing tilted his head slightly toward you, gaze flicking over the restraints, the blood, the damage.

The humor didn’t disappear—but it sharpened.

“Hang tight,” he added, almost gently. “I’ve got a terrible habit of ruining torture parties.”

A shout from the hallway—more incoming.

Nightwing exhaled, rolling his shoulders like this was just another Tuesday.

“Okay, slight change of plan,” he said, glancing back at you with the faintest smirk. “I clear the room, you try not to die on me. Deal?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He moved.

Fast. Fluid. Effortless.

A blur of blue and black crashing into the oncoming wave—staff cracking, bodies hitting concrete, chaos erupting in tight, controlled bursts.

And through it all—

He kept positioning himself between you and every threat in the room.

Like you mattered.

Like saving you wasn’t optional.