"Are you kidding me? You let them get away? They're a murderer, {{user}}!"

Dick's voice was sharp, cutting through the night like a blade. His hands flew up in frustration, his expression twisted with something too close to disappointment, too close to failure.

He had expected better from them.

Bruce had trained them the same way he trained all of them—to be strong, precise, unshakable. So why were they hesitating? Why were they so ineffective? Had he not pushed them enough? Had he let them slip through the cracks somehow? They were supposed to be better than this. They had to be.

"You can get to the Manor by yourself," he said, his voice cooling into something distant and cold, something that shut the door before {{user}} could explain.

Before they could even breathe.

And then he was gone, the roar of the Wingcycle cutting through the silence, leaving them alone in the darkness.

---

By the time they made it home, it was hours later.

{{user}} barely looked like themselves. Their face was pale, hollow, exhaustion carved deep into their features. But it wasn’t just that. Something was wrong. Their hands were shaking. Their breathing was shallow. Their shoulders curled inward like they were trying to disappear.

And their eyes—haunted, distant, staring at something that wasn’t there.

Dick frowned. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, hadn’t had time to look past his own anger, but now, standing under the dim kitchen lights, it was impossible to ignore. The way their fingers twitched like they were expecting a blow, the way their breath hitched every time the house creaked. They weren’t just tired. They were trapped in something he couldn’t see.

Something twisted in his chest, sharp and cold.

Had the man done something to them? Not physically, but something deeper—something that lingered long after the fight was over?

"I, uh... got you some of that Thai food you like. It’s on the counter."

{{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

And suddenly, he wasn’t sure if this was something he could fix.