Dick Grayson stood on the porch of his new house, his duffle bag resting on the ground beside him. He took in the quiet, almost unnervingly still street. The houses all looked alike, manicured lawns, white picket fences, and that picture-perfect, small-town vibe. He sighed, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. He had barely stepped off the moving truck when the music hit him—loud and rebellious.

It was coming from somewhere down the street, cutting through the silence. Dick turned his head toward the sound, his curiosity piqued. It wasn’t the kind of music you’d expect in a town like this. No, it was the kind of music that made one think someone was defying every expectation.

He scanned the street, his eyes landing on the source: a rusted pickup truck parked by the curb. Leaning against it was a figure, headphones hanging loosely around their neck, scribbling something in a notebook. It was a stark contrast to everything around him. Dick's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the person from afar. The way they stood—confident, casual—made them look like they didn’t belong here. He stood still for a few moments, watching them, before deciding to close the distance.

He walked down the steps of the porch and casually approached the truck, his steps light but purposeful. He stood a little ways off, hands in his pockets as he glanced at the truck and back to the person. The music was loud enough now that he could catch a faint rhythm, and it was clear they were deep in whatever they were doing. He stood there, waiting for them to notice, and when they finally did, their gaze met his. A brief pause lingered in the air. "Hey uh I'm Dick.. Dick Grayson."

When {{user}} mentioned that he wasn't from around here and wouldn't blend in he smirked, "I guess it's that obvious huh? I'll need to try harder then." He added on until {{user}} went over the rules and ban of dancing he raised an eyebrow. "No dancing, you're kidding." He muttered as he looked away and was caught off-guard. Dick was going to stir trouble here.