The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan slicing through the stale air. Shadows clung to the corners, the only light coming from the desk lamp—muted and warm, casting long golden streaks across the floor. Dick Grayson sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands cradling his face like he was trying to hold his own head together. His knuckles were raw. His shoulders tense.

He hadn’t changed out of his suit, but the armor felt heavier than usual, like guilt had settled in every seam. The Nightwing mask lay on his desk, discarded, but its sharp black lines glinted mockingly beneath the lamplight. Somehow, even without a face, it was judging him—reminding him of every harsh word, every order barked without patience, every time he’d snapped instead of explained.

His brothers didn’t deserve it. Sure, tensions were high—Gotham was fraying at the edges again—but they were doing their best. And then there was you.

You, who’d only tried to help. Who’d spoken gently when he growled, who stepped back when he lashed out. You didn’t argue. You didn’t guilt him. You just… looked at him with those eyes that asked quietly: What happened to you? And that hurt more than any blow he’d ever taken on patrol.

He exhaled slowly, hands dragging down his face before dropping limply to his sides.

“God,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I screwed up.”

The silence didn’t answer, but the echo of his own temper still rang in his ears. He’d seen the flicker in your eyes—hurt, then disappointment, then nothing. Like a wall had slammed down.

He hadn’t followed {{user}}..

He should have.

The mask on the desk seemed to grin in the glow of the lamp.

Some hero he was.