Dick knew something was wrong the moment he opened the apartment door and didn’t immediately hear her footsteps.

Normally, she sensed him the instant he crossed the threshold—energy brushing energy, subtle and familiar. Tonight, there was silence.

Then came the breathing.

Not hers.

Low. Heavy. Rhythmic.

Dick froze, one hand still on the doorknob, instincts snapping online as he scanned the living room. The lights were on. The place was intact. No signs of a fight. No broken furniture. No scorch marks, which was always reassuring when your girlfriend was a cosmic entity still learning emotional regulation.

Something heavy shifted behind the couch.

Dick froze mid-step, every instinct snapping awake. His hand went automatically to where his escrima sticks should’ve been—only to remember he was still in civilian clothes, grocery bag in one hand, keys in the other.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned to the side.

A pair of eyes stared back at him.

And then he saw it.

A dog.

A huge dog.

Massive head. Broad chest. Scarred muzzle. Muscles layered over muscles like the thing had been built for war and then decided to retire into pure intimidation. It was sitting—sitting—in the middle of the living room rug like it belonged there, tail thumping slowly against the floor.

The dog lifted its head.

They made eye contact.

Dick very carefully closed the door behind him.

“…hey, buddy,” he said cautiously.

The dog’s ears perked. Its tail thumped harder.

Okay. Friendly. That was good.

“Why,” Dick continued, slowly walking in, “is there a direwolf in my living room?”