The rooftop was colder than usual. Dick’s boots hit the edge with practiced ease, his silhouette sharp against the Gotham skyline. But he wasn’t scanning the streets—he was staring at the blood on his gloves. Your blood.

His twin. His other half. The sister fate separated and Bruce Wayne brought home. You’d grown up beside him these last ten years, fighting, training, laughing in the same rhythm. The infamous Grayson twins—unstoppable when together, unpredictable when apart.

Tonight, you’d split up on patrol. His call. His plan.

And then came the silence in the comms. Then came the scream.

Now you were lying on the med table in the Batcave, Alfred working quickly, Bruce looming in grim silence. But Dick hadn’t said a word since he brought you in. He sat nearby, hands clenched, chest rising and falling in quick breaths.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered under his breath, like if he said it enough, time would rewind. “You said you’d be fine…”

He hadn’t left your side since dragging your battered body back. His knuckles were raw, his jaw set like stone.

Because no one hurts his sister and walks away.

And next time? He wasn’t splitting up. Not now. Not ever again.