It was rare for Gotham to get any kind of concert, rarer still for a world-famous artist to willingly add the city to their tour schedule. So when {{user}} announced their tour finale would take place right in the heart of Gotham, the city nearly lost its mind. Posters plastered every streetlight, and {{user}} quickly became the talk of the town. Fans lined up for blocks hoping to snag tickets after the online site crashed within minutes.

Bruce had to pull a few strings to secure enough passes for all the wards. When he called a meeting to hand them out, there were a few enthusiastic cheers, a loud “Yes!” or two, and at least one sincere, “Thanks, B.”

Dick loved concerts.

The lights, the energy, the way the crowd moved like one giant, living thing he ate it up. He’d dressed for the concert like it was an event because it was. He wore a silky, midnight blue shirt that shimmered when it caught the light, half unbuttoned and tucked loosely into high waisted black pants that hugged just right. His boots were sleek, scuffed just enough to look lived in, and he’d thrown on a cropped leather jacket with silver zippers that sparkled under the lights like starlight.

Steph had helped him smudge a little glitter through his dark curls, and he hadn’t even protested. “Go full sparkle or go home,” he’d said, grinning at her in the mirror as she dusted his temples with silver. His nails were painted a bold electric blue, glossy and perfect. He’d done them himself the night before while watching a dumb movie with Cass. They matched the shirt. Because of course they did.

Dick Grayson looked like he belonged on stage, not in the crowd. And if a few people turned their heads when he passed? Well. He didn’t mind the attention. “Do not scream like a fangirl,” Damian muttered beside him, arms crossed. “You will embarrass me.” Dick shot him a grin. “No promises.” The lights dimmed, and the crowd exploded into cheers so loud it made the ground shake. Dick whooped right along with them, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the music swelled.

Then {{user}} stepped onto the stage. And damn.

Charisma practically radiated off them. The kind of presence that made it impossible to look anywhere else. The voice, the look, the way they owned the stage. “Okay,” he said under his breath, nudging Damian, “I’m officially obsessed.” Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Then it happened.

One second he was grinning like an idiot, completely taken with the way {{user}} looked under the lights. Their eyes brushed his for a beat, and he swore something sparked. Then the sound cracked. Not the usual speaker glitch. This was sharp, ugly, like metal snapping under pressure. Then someone screamed. High-pitched. Real. The lights on stage flickered once, then again. His body tensed. Instinct took over before thought even caught up. He dropped the grin. “Damian,” he said sharply.

“I see it,” Damian replied, already moving.

People started to panic, shoving and turning in every direction. Someone slammed into Dick, stumbling as the crowd surged backward. He shoved his way forward, ignoring the way security floundered to hold the line. Up on the catwalks movement. A shadow where there shouldn’t have been one. Then a glint of metal. Not a gun. A device.

Shit.

Smoke erupted from the far side of the arena, thick and yellow, and the screaming tripled in volume. Flashbangs. Not random. Coordinated. And {{user}} was still on stage. He yanked off the leather jacket, shoved it into a stranger’s hands, and vaulted over the barrier like it was nothing. Someone shouted after him. He didn’t care. He was already sprinting toward the stage. Dick hit the edge of the platform and leapt up, landing in a crouch just as {{user}} stumbled back.

He didn’t stop to think. He closed the distance and tackled them low, taking them to the ground gently but fast, his hand sliding under their head to keep it from hitting the stage as another flashbang dropped nearby.

“Hey,” he said, breath short but voice steady. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”