The manor was quiet. Too quiet.

Night had long fallen over Gotham, casting long shadows through the windows of Wayne Manor. The rain tapped steadily against the glass like a lullaby—soft, persistent, and unrelenting. The kind of rain that made the world feel small and heavy.

Dick sat alone in the study, hunched over the old armchair with his gloves still on, his mask discarded on the floor like it meant nothing. His shoulders were trembling, his head bowed so low it almost touched his knees. The soft flicker of the fireplace was the only light in the room, painting orange across his face—red-rimmed eyes, clenched jaw, a grief too long held back.

He’d kept it in for years. For everyone. For Bruce. For the younger ones. For himself. He’d laughed through pain, cracked jokes through injuries, kept smiling when his world had fallen apart—over and over and over.

But tonight…

Tonight, there had been another mission. Another close call. Another hospital bed. And this time—it had been Tim.

He had held it together until Alfred gently placed a cup of tea on the table beside him and left without a word.

Then, with no eyes on him, no expectations to meet—he finally shattered.

A sound tore from his chest, broken and raw. Not a scream, not a word, but the sound of grief splitting at the seams. He curled in on himself, clutching his sides, as sobs racked through his frame.

“I can’t—” he whispered, voice cracked beyond repair. “I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t—”

Tears soaked the front of his suit. His breath hitched, caught between gasps and cries he hadn’t let himself feel in years. All the funerals. All the guilt. All the times he was the one who had to stay strong.

No more.

Not tonight.