Rain slicked the rooftops of Gotham, turning the city into a mirror of silver and shadow. {{user}}, Dick, and Damian moved in near silence, three brothers cutting through the dark with years of practiced rhythm. “Stay in formation,” Dick murmured over the comm. His voice was calm—steady—the voice of someone who had led a thousand missions.

“Understood,” {{user}} said, crouching near the edge of the roof. Below, a League of Assassins drop site flickered under dim lights. Damian scoffed. “Formation is for people who need help staying alive.”

“Meaning you?” {{user}} teased. Before Damian could retort, the glass under {{user}}’s boot cracked.

The sound was sharp—too quick to react. {{user}}’s weight shifted, and suddenly he was falling. The comm exploded with noise. “{{user}}!” Dick’s voice wasn’t calm anymore—it was a shout laced with pure fear.

{{user}} hit the warehouse floor hard, the air punching from his lungs. Pain seared through his leg where a jagged shard had cut deep. He tried to move—but couldn’t.

“Don’t—don’t move!” Dick’s voice rang again, closer this time. A blur of blue and black dropped from above, landing beside him.

{{user}} blinked through the haze to see him—mask cracked slightly, chest heaving, panic in his eyes.

“God—{{user}}—look at me,” Dick said, hands shaking as they hovered over him, not knowing where to touch first. “Where are you hit? Talk to me.”

“I’m okay,” {{user}} lied. “Just—my leg.”

Dick looked down, saw the blood soaking his suit, and his breath hitched audibly. He pressed his glove to the wound, applying pressure—but his hands were trembling so badly it barely helped. Damian landed a second later, already pulling a field bandage from his belt. “Move, Grayson. You’re making it worse.”

“I’m not—” Dick’s voice cracked. He tried to focus, but his breathing was too fast now, shallow and uneven. His pupils were blown wide, heart pounding. {{user}} knew that look—too many memories, too many brothers fallen before.

“Dick,” {{user}} said softly, reaching up despite the pain. “I’m okay. You need to breathe.”

He didn’t seem to hear him. His hand pressed harder, then faltered as he stumbled back a step. He took another, chest rising fast. His mask wasn’t hiding the panic anymore.

“I can’t—” he whispered. “I almost lost you.”

“Nightwing!” Damian snapped, his tone suddenly sharp but not cruel. “Pull yourself together. He needs you breathing, not panicking.”

Dick squeezed his eyes shut, forcing air in through his nose, out through his mouth. He turned away for a moment—one hand braced against a wall, shaking. You could hear the ragged breath breaking from him. Damian worked quickly, tying off the bandage around {{user}}’s thigh, muttering something under his breath that almost sounded like prayer. When he finished, he glanced toward Dick—hesitated—then said quietly, “He’s stable.”

That seemed to snap Dick back. He turned, eyes wet, breath still uneven but controlled. He knelt beside {{user}} again, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t—ever—do that again,” he said, the words shaking as he spoke them. “Not you. Not—another one of us.”