Dick had taken care of the Bat first—of course he had. The old man had always been the foundation, the spine of their twisted little family. Once Bruce fell, everything else folded neatly into place. A quiet sip from the neck, a peaceful death, and no more growling lectures in the dark. He hadn’t even screamed. That part still disappointed him.

Clark had been trickier, but Hal and Diana had made quick work of it. They admired efficiency, even when it dripped red. And now the Man of Steel served the cause—silent, strong, with eyes that didn’t quite glow like they used to.

But Dick?

Dick still had one more piece to move.

He didn’t rush. His boots were nearly silent on the old wood as he ascended the familiar stairs of Wayne Manor, humming softly to himself. It was a lullaby. Or maybe a funeral hymn. The halls were darker now, colder without Alfred’s watchful eye. Good. Let it be cold.

Jason’s scent hit him halfway up—gunpowder and smoke, steel, sweat, and something corrupted deep beneath the skin. The Lazarus Pit clung to him like rot to bone, but under that… was fear.

Dick smiled.

He paused before the door at the end of the hall, placed his hands neatly behind his back, and tapped his knuckles once—twice—on the wood.

The blood still clung to his lips.

"Stop hiding, little bird," he called softly, his voice slipping under the door like fog. He wiped his mouth with gloved fingers, then licked them clean. “I just want to talk to you, you know.”

He almost laughed. It sounded like him, didn’t it? Like every other time he’d come to check in, smooth things over after one of Jason’s outbursts. Like he still cared about petty things like arguments or apologies.

But this was different.

“I’ve already brought peace to this house, Jay,” he continued, tilting his head. “The Bat doesn’t growl anymore. Clark sees reason. The world’s finally quiet.”

“I want you beside me. I want my brother whole. Forever.” He reached for the doorknob.

“You’ve died once already. What’s one more time… for something better?”