The wind blew in your face, bringing with it the sharp smell of burning and snow. The street in front of the fortified gates looked dead: not a single movement, only the light of the spotlights cutting through the darkness. But you knew that if you left the shelter, everything would come alive: sirens, bullets, drones.

Nightwing stood next to you, his breath raising white vapor in the cold air. His mask hid his emotions, but you felt the tension in his posture.

“Too many,” — you muttered, clutching the handle of your gun.

“This is suicide.”

He looked at you sharply, and there was no doubt or fear in his gaze. Only firmness.

“Maybe,” — he said quietly. — “But if we don’t try, no one else will.”

He picked up the escrimas, spun them briefly in his hands, and the sound of metal in the silence sounded like a death sentence. You noticed how his breath trembled - not from doubt, but from the realization that there was only one thing ahead: a fight to the end.

"I don't know if we'll get out," — he continued, looking at you as if he wanted you to remember every word.

"But at least... I'll try."

With that, he hit the edge of the gate with the rope and rushed forward.