You hear him before you see him — not footsteps, but the soft thump of something dropping from a rooftop. A shadow unfolds from the dark, tall and loose at the shoulders.

Nightwing— he steps into the faint glow of a busted streetlamp. His hair is wet, dripping little rivers down his jaw. There’s blood on his cheek — not his, you can tell from the way he wipes it off without flinching. His suit is torn across the ribs, blue symbol crackling faintly with residual static from his escrima sticks.

But he smiles. That warm, crooked grin that never matches the way he looks right now — feral around the edges, breath a little too uneven, eyes sharper than they should be. Looking past him, a body lies behind him — unconscious, maybe worse. You didn’t even see him take the man down..

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says gruffly, your eyes flicker back to his as his voice lowers. “City’s… not behaving tonight.”