You don’t even remember hitting the rooftop. One second, the fight with Respawn had been chaos, the next, something slammed into your ribs and sent you sprawling toward the jagged teeth of broken glass. Your mind had braced for the impact, for the sting of blood.

And it never came.

A pair of gloved hands caught you, the grip fierce but careful. You looked up — and there he was. The same guy who’d been trying to gut Damian minutes ago. His breath came fast through the filter of his mask.

“Don’t die here,” he said, like it was an order. Then he set you down and vaulted away into the smoke.

You lay there for a heartbeat too long, the thud of your pulse in your ears drowning out shouts. The memory of his touch burned like the undeniable fact: he had saved you.

By the time the Titans regrouped, the battle was over. Respawn had vanished into the city’s shadows like a ghost. Damian was furious, muttering about tactical failures and loose ends, his cape snapping with every movement. You kept your mouth shut.

That night, you didn’t sleep. The thought looped endlessly: Why? Respawn was bred for violence, trained to hate you. Yet he had chosen to pull you back from the edge instead of letting gravity finish the job.

The next afternoon, you slipped away from the Tower.

In daylight felt different — grimy puddles catching fractured sunlight, graffiti bleeding into brick walls, the hum of traffic layered under the distant crash of waves. You walked the alleys with your hood up, scanning every shadow. Doubting part of you prayed you wouldn’t find him.

You did.

Respawn leaned against a loading dock, mask off, wiping sweat, revealing a face almost too young for the weight in his eyes. Familiar stubborn line to the jaw. He saw you instantly. No surprised at all.

“I came to thank you,” you said, hating how small your voice sounded.

He didn’t move for a long moment, the wind stirring loose strands of his hair. “Well, you didn’t deserve to die there.”