The apartment was eerily quiet. Too quiet for someone who normally came home with a fresh set of bruises and a sarcastic quip. Tonight? Nightwing wasn’t flying solo. The door creaked open, and Dick stepped in, one arm balancing a duffel bag, the other cradling a tiny, silent bundle swaddled in an old hoodie. He kicked the door shut behind him—carefully, because apparently, scaring the kid more than he already was seemed... counterproductive.

Dick dropped the bag and took in his modest Blüdhaven apartment. Then he glanced down at {{user}}, still curled up against his chest like a half-feral kitten on a bad day.

“Okay… uh. Right. So. You’re here now.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. Instead, they blinked, their large glowing eyes sweeping the room—probably scoping out the exits, or maybe planning an escape route. The tail curled tighter around Dick’s waist like it was the last lifeline on a sinking ship. Dick sighed, toeing off his boots with the enthusiasm of someone who’d just realized he was about to screw up their entire evening. He carefully lowered {{user}} onto a blanket on the couch, earning a small protest from the kid’s claws, which stayed stubbornly curled in place. Their ears twitched at every creak in the floorboards. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the little creature with the kind of exhausted fondness that only came from realizing his life had taken yet another absurd turn.

“Alright, buddy, here’s the deal. I’m great at breaking into buildings, punching bad guys, and doing backflips like a circus acrobat. Raising traumatized hybrids? Not exactly on the resume.”

Dick stood in the middle of the living room, arms outstretched like he was presenting a magic trick gone terribly wrong. One hand rested on his hip, the other gestured vaguely toward the kitchen like it might suddenly provide some answers. He muttered to himself. “Do hybrids even eat cereal? No. No, that’s dumb. The kid probably has no idea what cereal is.”