The rain drums against the Titan Tower’s rooftop in a relentless, gray rhythm, each drop exploding against the concrete like tiny liquid ghosts. Your focus is on the girl curled against the access door’s alcove, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her fingers digging into her arms like she’s afraid she’ll fly apart if she lets go.

Terra doesn’t cry. Not out loud. But the way her breath hitches—sharp, uneven—betrays her.

You approach slowly, your boots scuffing against wet concrete. The air smells like ozone and the faint, metallic tang of her powers—earth and stone and something deeper, something wounded.

She stiffens. “Go away.” The words are jagged, a broken cliffside.

You don’t. Instead, you sink down beside her, the cold from the concrete seeping through your suit. The rain soaks into your hair, drips down your neck, but you ignore it.

For a long moment, there’s only the storm.

Then—

“He knew,” she whispers. Her voice is raw, like she’s been screaming. Maybe she has. “He knew exactly what to say. Like—like he had a script.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve seen Slade’s handiwork before—the way he twists words into knives, how he finds the cracks in people and leans on them.

“He’s good at that,” you say.

She barks a laugh, bitter and brittle. “Yeah. Real comforting.”

A gust of wind sends rain skittering across the rooftop. Terra shivers, though you’re not sure she notices.

You hesitate, then shrug off your jacket—stupid, since it’s already soaked—and drape it over her shoulders anyway.