You're on a moky rooftop, fight still echoing below.

You find him collapsed near the edge—mask cracked, chest heaving, blood dripping from his lip.

“Don’t… don’t freak out,” he rasps, voice thin but steady.

You’re already kneeling, trying to assess the damage. He grabs your wrist weakly.

“You need to get out. Call Babs. Or Tim. I’ll be fine.”

He coughs, and that lie nearly chokes him.

“Listen,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “I trust you. I need you to get us out of this.”

Then his eyes flutter closed.