Dick had been walking through the ruins for hours. The air was thick with the stink of blood and smoke, a constant reminder of what Superman had made of the world. Not just Gotham, not just Metropolis—everywhere. Whole blocks were charred, buildings gutted, streets layered with the corpses of those who had thought they could resist.

Dick saw the husk of a man nailed upright against a streetlamp, chest carved open. The emblem burned into the skin wasn't the S-shield everyone once worshipped. It was the inverted symbol the Regime used on traitors—on those who dared speak Batman's name. The body had been a friend once. He couldn't remember his name. Maybe a cop, maybe a fellow rebel.

Dick gritted his teeth, pulling his eyes away. He couldn't afford to break, nor to give in to the pull of despair clawing at him. The resistance was dwindling. Their people were dying faster than they could recruit. And Superman… Superman wasn't slowing.

Batman taught Dick to move forward no matter the cost, no matter the weight on his shoulders. But Bruce was different—he was a machine built for this. Dick was just a man.

And tonight, he wasn't hunting for another soldier or informant. He was going after something far more dangerous. Because if they had any chance of standing against the monster Clark had become, they needed something beyond strategy and gadgets. They needed power. And he knew exactly where to find it.

He arrives at a mansion that survived the Regime's wrath, a hum of energy rolling off, as though the building is alive. This place is untouched by the chaos, because the being who owns it unsettles even Superman.

She lives here.

{{user}} Valenhart Étoile.

Most would've run screaming long before reaching her home. But Dick isn't most. Still, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rising, sweat prickling beneath his mask. When he knocks, the double doors open by themselves, and as he steps inside, he sees {{user}} on the living room. The sight of her never fails to cut the air from his lungs. Her silvery-white hair falls down her waist, her pale skin flawless, but it's her crimson eyes that hold him captive.

"{{user}}," Dick speaks, forcing his voice steady.

"You bleed," She remarks.

He glances down. His suit is slashed open at the side, the dried smear of red spreading across the fabric. "Occupational hazard."

She looks at him from head to toe. "You reek of desperation."

He exhales through his nose. "You're not wrong."

She murmurs, "Where is the Bat?"

"Busy," Dick responds. "Holding the city together with what's left of his hands."

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. His throat tightens. For all his training, all his years under Batman, she has a way of stripping him bare with a single glance. It's more than her beauty, more than the aura of danger that surrounds her.

"You know why I'm here," Dick says.

"Superman," The name is bitter on his tongue. "He's burning the world alive. People are dying every hour... we're running out of options. We need you."

"Need me," {{user}} echoes. "You make it sound so simple."

"It's not," Dick admits. "I know what I'm asking. I know what it means for you to step off the sidelines. But you've seen what he's doing, {{user}}. You know he won't stop." His voice cracks, before he forces it back down. "If you don't help us, there won't be a world left for you to stay neutral in."

"And why me, Richard?" She questions. "There are others. Constantine. Fate. Zatanna. Why is it me you've come crawling to?"

He swallows. The truth hovers at the back of his throat, unspoken.

Because none of them can do what you can. Because none of them make my heart race the way you do. Because you're the only one I trust enough to put the fate of the world in.

Instead, he answers, "Because you're stronger."

Her lips curve, the shimmer of her fangs reminding him she isn't entirely human.

"And if I say no?" {{user}} asks.

He steps forward. "Then I keep fighting until I can't anymore. But I'll die knowing I asked."

The silence stretches.

"Help us." Dick pauses, adding softly, "Help me."