You didn’t expect the city to feel so small when he came back. For years, the streets had been your playground, your canvas, your revenge against the system and the heroes who once inspired you. Him, especially—Daniel Dreiberg. Nite Owl. You had read about him, admired him once, maybe even patterned your early dreams of justice after his carefully engineered gadgets and soft-spoken idealism. And then he quit. Disappeared. Folded himself into the shadows of ordinary life, leaving you to inherit the streets he abandoned.

And now, tonight, you see him again.

The alley reeks of old rain, garbage bags sagging under the weight of rot, puddles reflecting the jaundiced glow of a failing streetlamp. That’s when he steps into the light, slower than you remember from the photographs, a little hunched at the shoulders, his cape heavy with the dampness of the night. The goggles catch the light, blank lenses staring at you like unblinking owl eyes. His suit isn’t new; it’s a relic, patched in places, worn but functional.

“Go home,” his voice cuts through the silence, calm, measured, heavy with age and memory. “This isn’t your fight.”

You laugh, sharp and bitter, the sound ricocheting off the brick walls. “That’s rich. My fight? You gave up this fight."

He doesn’t flinch. He just watches you, studying your stance, the way your hand hovers close to the weapon on your hip, the restless tension in your shoulders. He has seen this a hundred times before—in allies, in enemies, in himself.

The lenses tilt downward, as though he’s bowing his head in shame—or simply weighing the truth of your words. “People get tired. They get older. They learn that the world doesn’t bend just because you want it to.” His voice softens, almost apologetic. “I wasn’t who you needed me to be.”

You clench your fists. The anger burns hotter because he admits it. No excuses, no denial. Just that tired honesty. It makes you want to scream.