There’s no going back now. Not after what happened. Not after what they took from you.

You inhale slowly, forcing your breath to steady. Tonight was supposed to be your first real act, your grand debut as someone they’d never forget. The League and the others would notice. Your name would mean something more than whispers and pity. All you had to do was reroute a frequency, fry some communication lines, and vanish before they traced it back to you. A simple plan. Until you felt that presence behind you—calm, unwavering, and irritatingly patient.

“I know what this looks like,” comes the voice, smooth as a radio signal breaking static. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just even. "But I’m not here to hurt you.”

You spin so fast the world tilts. Your pulse hammers as you stumble back against the ledge, ready to summon the stolen device from your pocket like a shield. Then you see him. The green-and-yellow suit is dated, like something that belongs to a different era—a walking relic. You recognize this guy from old files, from warnings in circles you probably shouldn’t have been in. He hangs around Nightwing or something like that...

Your voice comes out sharper than you intend, desperate to sound dangerous when your knees feel like glass. “Stay back. I’m not kidding.”

His hands lift slowly, palms open like you’re some wounded animal he doesn’t want to spook. “I believe you,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone irritates you more than any threat could. The city noise falls away in that strange hum around him, like he’s tuned the world out except for you. “But you don’t want this. Whatever you’re planning… You’re not ready for what comes after.”

You laugh. It’s brittle, hollow, breaking in the middle.

“I can hear your signal,” Harold murmurs, stepping closer with that same infuriating calm. “Every emotion you’re broadcasting like white noise. Anger. Grief. But mostly? You just want to feel safe again.”

The words slice through you like glass. Safe. The last thing you’ve felt in months. Maybe years. Your throat tightens until it burns. You hate him for saying it. You hate how much it sounds like the truth.

“I’m not your enemy,” he adds, voice dipping lower, steady like a lifeline. “Let me help you before this city chews you up like it does everyone else.”