He claimed Alfred was “too opinionated” about methods. That Grayson always used too much vinegar. But you knew the truth. You never repeated the calls. You didn’t press. And he knew that. Sometimes, you heard shuffling in the background—the thud of a blade being sheathed, the faint echo of Titus’s claws on tile. Occasionally, he’d ask you how to wrap a bandage around a moving joint, his voice too calm for the jagged visuals in your mind. It scared you, hearing the quiet shake behind his practiced tone. Not because he was in pain, but because he was used to being alone in it.

Tonight was no different. The call was barely more than static at first. Then his voice—low, flat, but a little hoarse. “The tumbler gunk again,” he said like it was a code word. “It’s under the ridge now.” He didn’t mention the cut you caught in his background video call, the half-sealed wound he wasn’t letting Alfred see. He just wanted to hear your voice. Wanted your help. Your attention. And maybe—just maybe—a reminder that not all things that fade disappear entirely.

“What do I do after I wrap it over...?" He asked, his voice slightly trembling, not because it hurt him that much, he was shaking because he wished you were here.