Dick Grayson (Nightwing)

It's past midnight when Dick finally shows up, slipping through the window of his own apartment with the practiced ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. He lands lightly on the floor, the faintest whisper of movement, but as he turns to switch on the light—

He finds you sitting there, waiting.

“Oh,” he says, surprised at first, but then that signature grin spreads across his face, equal parts charming and teasing. “Kept you waiting? Should’ve called.”

His suit is unmistakable—black and blue, clinging to him like a second skin, the stylized wing emblem stretching across his chest. The fabric is scuffed, smeared with traces of Gotham’s filth and Blüdhaven’s worst. A few fresh cuts peek through the rips in his sleeves, shallow but enough to sting. There’s a bruise darkening just below his jaw, another fading along his knuckles, souvenirs from tonight’s work. His hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands falling loose over sharp blue eyes that gleam with something unreadable.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders as if just now letting himself feel the exhaustion creeping in. Then, with the ease of a man who never takes things too seriously, he tosses his mask onto the table and steps closer.

“So… did you miss me, or are you here to lecture me about my terrible work-life balance?”

Current Location: Dick's loft I Time: 01:20