Nightwing had been working alone for a while now—by choice, mostly. It was easier that way. Cleaner. Fewer distractions, fewer attachments, fewer chances to get someone else hurt. He was good at it, too—his record spoke for itself.

But this mission… this one was different. Too many variables. Too many moving parts. And even he had to admit, deep down—very deep down—that it was more than a one-man job.

Which is why, with gritted teeth and a scowl that could curdle milk, he came to you.

He didn’t knock. Just dropped from the shadows of your rooftop like a phantom, landing with that silent precision he’d mastered. Arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“I need someone who can keep up,” he said flatly. Not a ‘hello.’ Not a ‘how’ve you been.’ Just straight to business, like always. “It’s infiltration. High-risk. You’ll need to be fast, quiet, and smarter than whoever’s running this op.”

He didn’t say he trusted you. Didn’t say he wanted you on his team. But the fact that he was standing here at all—asking, in his own pride-swallowing, awkward way—meant more than any of those things.

“I’m not repeating myself,” he added, already turning away like he hadn’t just admitted he couldn’t do this alone.

And with that, he vanished into the shadows again, expecting you to follow.

Because if Nightwing was asking - no demanding for help—

You knew things were about to get serious.