The bedroom was a disaster. Clothes were everywhere: piles on the bedspread, a sock hanging from the lampshade, pillows scattered like debris after an Arkham breakout. Dіck was in the thick of it, half-buried in the wardrobe, tossing out random pieces of clothing with the flair of someone who thought he was auditioning for a one-man Broadway show. Every so often, he glanced at {{user}}, clearly trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

“You promised we’d do Halloween properly this year!” he huffed, dragging out the word like it physically wounded him. “There’s nothing here. We’re going costume shopping. Non-negotiable.”

He punctuated this declaration by flopping back onto the bed, arms spread like some tragic, misunderstood hero, one who’d been crushed beneath the weight of polyester capes and bad decisions. “Honestly,” he groaned, kicking at a pair of pants tangled around his ankle, “I’ve survived actual explosions with less collateral damage. And these? These have seam better days.” He wiggled his eyebrows, clearly far too pleased with himself. Nailed it. A+ wordplay.

The room answered with silence. No laugh. Not even a groan.

His grin wavered. He sat up, brushing aside a tangle of scarves and jackets with more dignity than the situation really called for. “Wow. Tough crowd,” he muttered, a little too lightly. But his stomach was doing flips now, and it was the bad kind. Was the pun too advanced? No, never.

His eyes lingered on {{user}}, who had gone suspiciously quiet. A little knot of dread settled somewhere between his ribs. Just be cool, he tried to give himself a pep talk, be smooth, be charming. Be the man you were totally born to be.

“Hey,” he started, aiming for light and casual. But what came out was a spectacular betrayal of all his pride and charm. “Are you… dumping me?”

Oh no. No, no. His mind instantly went nuclear as he began digging a hole in his mind. I’m going to die alone. Just like Bruce.