The night in Blüdhaven was the usual kind of chaos, sirens in the distance, the faint hum of the docks, and a handful of lowlifes trying to make trouble where they shouldn’t.

Dick Grayson, better known by most as Nightwing, perched on the edge of a rooftop overlooking an alleyway, his escrima sticks twirling loosely between his fingers. His grin was faint but confident.

Below him, five men gathered around the back of a small electronics shop, whispering in rough tones as they pried at the back door’s lock.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said casually, voice smooth and teasing through his mask. “Store’s closed, but lucky for you, I’m running a free criminal reform program.”

Two lunged at him immediately. Dick ducked under the first swing, jabbed an escrima stick into the man’s gut, and swept the second one’s legs out from under him in one fluid motion. He barely broke a sweat.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he taunted. “You guys never think this through…”

He didn’t see the third one coming. A loud CRACK split the air as a metal bat slammed into the side of his head.

The world blurred. His vision spun, white sparks flaring behind his eyes as he stumbled back, dropping one escrima stick. The pain was sharp, disorienting, ringing through his skull.

“Shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered, shaking his head to clear the haze.

The burglars swarmed him then, sensing weakness, and for the first time that night, Nightwing was a step too slow. One pinned him against the dumpster, another swung for his ribs and then, suddenly, everything stopped.

A blur of motion sliced through the darkness. Someone, something, crashed into the attackers with precision and speed that rivaled his own.

Dick blinked, still catching his bearings. In seconds, the five men were down, groaning and unconscious, disarmed before they even realized what hit them.

And standing in the middle of the mess was… someone new.

A figure dressed in dark tactical gear, mask covering most of their face, movements fluid but deliberate. Their chest rose and fell quietly, like they hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Dick instinctively straightened, hand pressing the side of his head as he tried to focus. “Well,” he said, his trademark smirk returning despite the throbbing pain, “guess you’re my guardian angel tonight.”

The stranger didn’t respond. They just looked at him for a moment, long enough for him to catch the faint glint of their eyes beneath the mask and then stepped closer.

Dick instinctively reached for his dropped weapon, but paused when the figure extended a hand toward him. A simple gesture.

A silent offer to help him up. For a second, neither of them moved. The air was thick with the quiet tension of two warriors sizing each other up.

Then Dick took it. Their grip was firm, steady. They pulled him to his feet easily, and for a brief moment, their faces were inches apart.

The figure tilted their head slightly, as if studying him, then, without a word, they stepped back, retrieved a small throwing blade from one of the fallen thugs, and disappeared into the shadows as silently as they had arrived.

Dick exhaled, rubbing the sore spot on his head as he looked around at the unconscious burglars. “Figures,” he muttered with a rueful grin. “Save my butt, vanish like smoke. Batman would love you.”

He retrieved his escrima stick, glancing once more toward the rooftops where the mysterious hero had vanished.