You’ve been on the tower rooftop longer than you intended. The sun is dipping toward the horizon, the ocean beyond the coastline glimmers under the last flare of daylight, its soft crash and hush against the rocks below almost hypnotic.

The Tower hums quietly behind you, its windows glowing warm from the inside. You’ve started to feel comfortable here, more than you ever thought you could. The Titans don’t look at you like a weapon. They don’t see you as a soldier or a pawn. For once, you feel like just a person. But that comfort feels fragile, breakable, like a thread ready to snap.

And then you hear footsteps. Slow, deliberate, heavier than Robin’s measured stride or Gar’s carefree bounce. You know who it is before you even turn.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” a voice says, smooth and edged like a blade. You tense, shoulders stiff under the cool evening breeze. Grant steps into the glow of fading sunlight, arms crossed over his chest, his outline sharp against the fiery sky.

You swallow hard.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you. The mask hides half his face, but you don’t need to see his eyes to feel the weight of his glare. When he finally speaks, it’s low and cold. “You’ve gotten cozy with them.”

You grip the metal railing in front of you. “They’re not the enemy, Grant.”

A bitter laugh cuts through the air, harsh as gravel. “Not the enemy? They’re everything Father stands against. Everything we were raised to fight. And now you’re what? Playing house with them?” His boots scrape against the rooftop as he steps closer, his presence filled with anger barely leashed.

Your heartbeat stutters. There it is—the wall between you and him. The unspoken truth: you’re not like him. You never were.

“Slade made his choices. You made yours."

Grant’s jaw tightens. You can almost hear his teeth grinding. “Don’t talk like you’re one of us,” he spits. “You’re not blood. You never will be.”

The words hit harder than you expect. A sharp ache blooms in your chest, but you keep your chin up. You’ve had years to prepare for this conversation—years of watching Grant look at you like a shadow, like something out of place in the perfect image of his family.