“You can’t do it.”

Nightwing’s voice cut through the rain-slicked night like a blade, sharp but steady. He stood in the middle of the alley, boots planted firmly against the wet pavement, arms crossed over his chest in that frustratingly confident way he always carried himself.

“You won’t pull the trigger,” he added, eyes narrowing slightly beneath his domino mask. The faintest curl tugged at the corner of his lips, not quite a smirk, but close enough to be infuriating. His entire focus was on you.

It was supposed to be just another mission. A high-stakes game of cat and mouse, except this time, the mouse was also the hunter. And somehow, fate or dumb luck or something in between had led to this moment: the two of you, face to face, under a flickering streetlamp on a random Tuesday night soaked in rain and tension.

How poetic.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Don’t make me beg, {{user}},” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with something dangerously close to pleading. “Slade lied to you. He’s always lied. You know that. You’re smarter than this.”

The barrel pointed straight at his chest. At his heart.

Nightwing took a cautious step forward, his movements slow and deliberate—like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. His hands slowly lifted in surrender, palms open, fingers spread. “Look, I’m not here to fight. I’m not even armed. If I was, don’t you think I would’ve drawn by now?” He chuckled lightly, though there was no real humor in it. “I’m giving you every chance to walk away from this. You still can.”

The rain kept falling, masking the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. His eyes, those maddeningly sincere blue eyes, never left yours. They weren’t taunting you anymore. They were pleading.

The silence stretched thick between you, broken only by the soft patter of rain hitting concrete. The tension in your finger wavered on the trigger.

“I know what Slade told you,” he said again, just a whisper this time. “Don’t let him turn you into something you’re not.”