⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ʚ.pooka.ɞ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

He’s the reason most people still believe in heroes. The streak of blue above the skyline, the shadow that moves faster than the sound of trouble. A myth with a pulse. Kids whisper his name in alleyways; old men tell stories about him over cheap whiskey. He’s proof that the city hasn’t been entirely swallowed by the dark.

But Nightwing doesn’t come to Cambria.

Not because he doesn’t care—because he doesn’t need to.

From what you’ve seen, he rarely sets foot here anymore. Once, when a trafficking ring operated out of the old warehouses by the pier, he tore through it in a single night. Clean, efficient, surgical. Since then? Nothing. In his eyes, Cambria was quiet. Rundown, sure—abandoned factories, broken streetlights, too many boarded-up windows—but relatively peaceful. No murders since last year, no major fires. Just a tired district trying to keep its head above water.

So he turned his focus elsewhere.

Cambria was your job.

You’re the one who keeps this little pocket of the city alive. The one who intercepts the man tailing a girl home from her night shift. The one who swings down to snatch a stolen purse from a runaway bike. The one who drags thugs out of alleys before they can turn petty violence into tragedy. The locals know. They may not know your name, but they know your silhouette, the sharp glint of your lenses, the hum of webs cutting through fog.

They know the mask.

They know the suit.

They know her—the one who moves like a blur, hits hard, and disappears before the cops even roll up.

They call you Spider-Woman, because people love naming the things that confuse them—or save them.

You didn’t come up with it. But you’ve learned to live with it.

Tonight, the streets hum beneath you. Neon signs bleed colour onto wet asphalt, puddles catching the glow of pinks and blues. The air smells like rain, metal, and fried food from the 24-hour diner on 6th. Your webs slice the dark as you swing above the narrow blocks of Cambria, the city unfolding beneath you in pulses of light and shadow.

It’s quieter than usual—too quiet. The kind of stillness that gets under your skin, that makes instinct whisper something’s off.

A cat scrambles across a rusted fire escape, setting off a loose tin can. From an apartment window, a record plays faint jazz, the sound warped and distant. Somewhere, a bus sighs to a stop.

You perch on a rooftop ledge, crouched low, mask reflecting the fractured glow of the skyline. The city feels alive tonight, like it’s holding its breath.

And somewhere out there, Nightwing is running his own patrol—downtown, maybe, where the buildings shine and the crimes make headlines.

That’s fine. He can have the spotlight.

You’ve got Cambria and your flower shop.

Cambria breathes beneath you.

Every rooftop, every flickering streetlight, every window half-cracked to let the night in — you know them all. You’ve lived in this city your whole life, and it’s lived in you right back. Its heartbeat thrums through the webline when you swing, steady and sure, a rhythm you could follow blindfolded.

You dive off the lip of an old apartment block, wind catching at your hood, cool against the sweat gathering at your neck. The first drop is always the best — that instant where gravity forgets to be cruel. Then the line snaps taut, and the world bends. The air whistles past your ears, your stomach lurches, and you can’t help the small, breathless laugh that slips out as you arc up again.

You’ve learned the city’s language through motion:

the tremor of the rail yard when the late freight rumbles through;

the tang of ozone near the electric plant;

the sour-sweet perfume of fried dough wafting from the riverfront long after midnight.

Up here, it’s yours. The cars below are just fireflies, the alleys a maze you already solved. You could swing this route with your eyes closed — and sometimes you do, just to prove you still can.

It’s quieter than usual tonight. The kind of quiet that doesn’t trust itself. You land on a billboard frame, balance on the edge, and listen. Far off, sirens fade into static. Somewhere to the east, a dog barks. Then silence again — thick and waiting.

You think about heading home. About peeling the suit off, letting your hair breathe, maybe showering the night out of your skin. But your instincts — that finely tuned hum born from years of rooftop hours — tell you to stay. Something’s out there. You can feel it crawling at the edges of your awareness, like a bass note too low for anyone else to hear.

Then it hits.

A roar that splits the quiet wide open.

Your head snaps toward the sound — two headlights tearing through the dark, the glow sharp and unnatural in the mist. Motorcycles. Loud ones. Their engines snarl down the block, reflections flashing across wet asphalt like lightning.

You push up from your perch, every sense lit. Not panic, not yet — just that bad-feeling buzz that never lies. You shoot a line, step off the edge, and fall.

Cambria catches you like it always does — in the rush of air, the pull of the web, the trust between you and the city you grew up saving.

They’re fast — too fast for this part of town. The engines snarl against the quiet, splitting it open like teeth through silk. You can feel the vibration before you see them, the hum of it rippling through the roof beneath your boots.

You spot them a second later — two motorcycles tearing down the block, twin beams of light slicing through the mist. The air trembles in their wake, headlights flashing off rain-slick asphalt.

It’s loud. Obnoxious. And it doesn’t fit.

People don’t tear through these streets like that unless they’re looking for trouble—or unless they don’t know where the hell they are.

You stay low on the edge of the roof, eyes tracking their movements. Leather jackets, no helmets, laughter cutting through the noise. You feel that flicker of irritation beneath your ribs, faint but sharp. You’ve seen their type before—reckless, cocky, bored enough to make someone else’s night worse.

Still. They’re not hurting anyone. Not yet.

You shoot a web toward the next building and let yourself fall. The wind rushes past your mask, cold and sharp against the thin fabric, and you catch the next line before you hit the ground. The swing pulls at your shoulders—familiar, grounding. You use the motion to follow them, gliding from one shadowed corner to the next.

The city opens beneath you like a pulse. Streetlights blink in rhythm, puddles ripple under every arc of your movement. You’ve spent years learning its rhythm—the sigh of the pipes under Blüdhaven’s oldest blocks, the way the neon buzzes louder when the humidity climbs.

This place raised you. Every cracked window, every flickering sign, every rooftop seam. You know its heartbeat better than your own.

And tonight, it’s restless.

The motorcycles turn down a narrower street—the kind no one drives through unless they’re lost. You follow, staying just high enough that the glint of your lenses won’t catch their mirrors. They’re looping back now, the same street again, then another. You recognize the confusion in it. Outsiders.

You let yourself exhale. Just idiots. Probably looking for food or trouble, whichever comes first.

When they stop, you land on a lamppost, crouched in the wet glow of sodium light. The smell of oil and old metal mixes with the faint sweetness of fried dough drifting from somewhere down the block. They’ve pulled into a diner lot—the old one that never shuts, its neon OPEN sign flickering between life and death.

They kill the engines. Voices drift up, low and rough. Cigarette smoke curls upward.

They’re laughing.

You linger for a moment, watching them. Waiting. But they don’t pull weapons, don’t drag anyone out. Just two men leaning on their bikes, too wrapped up in whatever story they’re telling to notice the eyes on them.

So you decide to leave it.

They’re not your problem—not unless they make themselves one.

You launch another web, swing off toward the next block. The night folds around you again, familiar and endless. You breathe it in—wet concrete, exhaust, something fried from the diner’s vents. The kind of smell that seeps into your suit and refuses to leave.

Twenty minutes pass. Maybe less. You check the usual spots: the bodega that never locks its back door, the alley behind the boxing gym, the freight yard. Nothing. Just quiet, broken only by the steady buzz of neon and the hum of rain on metal.  Quiet enough that your thoughts start to fill the silence.

Sometimes you wonder why you still do this. Why you crawl over the same rooftops every night, why you patch bullet holes with duct tape and hope you don’t shred up the last suit your grandma made for you.

And then—

The roar again.

Same engines. Louder this time, the kind of loud that makes your bones vibrate. You frown under your mask, glance toward the street. You’re ready to sigh, to shake your head, maybe throw a web between two lamp posts just to scare them straight and tell them to knock it off before someone complains.

But then—

The scream.

It splits through the noise, sharp and real and wrong.

The kind that makes everything inside you go still.

Before you think, you move.

A web fires from your wrist—thwip—and you launch yourself into the open air. Wind whips your face, tugging at the edges of your mask as gravity claws you down. You catch the next line, swing hard, feel the pull in your shoulder as you redirect your momentum toward the sound.

Your heart’s already pounding. You can smell exhaust now, burnt rubber, fear. The scream comes again—closer.

And then you see them.

Two bikes, just like before—but this time there are three riders.

The girl on the back is thrashing, trying to break free. Her voice rips through the night again, raw and terrified. One of the men laughs. The other swerves the bike, jerking her off balance, and you catch the flash of his grin in the streetlight.

That heat spikes in your chest—anger so sharp it tastes metallic.

You line up your next swing, lungs burning from the rush. The web hits true, anchoring against the rusted edge of a billboard. You push off, body cutting through the rain like a blade.

You’ve lived in Blüdhaven your whole life; Cambria is in your blood. You know every cracked sidewalk, every rusted fire escape, every flickering neon sign that hums against the night air. You’ve watched people look away when they hear a scream, watched the cops show up too late—or not at all. You’ve learned the rhythm of the streets, the way shadows gather, the quiet tells that signal trouble before it even hits.

But not tonight.

Not while you’re here.

The motorcycles scream past, headlights cutting through the dark, their engines tearing through the night like beasts unleashed. You swing after them, muscles coiling, arms pumping, webs latching to streetlights, fire escapes, anything solid enough to bear your weight. Your suit sticks to your skin from sweat and rain, but you barely notice. You’ve moved like this through the city hundreds of nights. You know the weight of your own momentum, the pull of gravity against your webline, the faint tug of wind over your ears and the slap of rain against your mask.

The motorcycles are fast. Too fast. They twist through the streets like they own the city, weaving between cars, almost grazing pedestrians who jump out of the way too late. You push harder, snapping another web and slinging yourself from a lamppost, muscles screaming, lungs burning. These bikes—they’re enhanced, illegal, whatever the hell they’ve done to them, they’re not normal. And that makes them dangerous.

Cambria falls behind you. The narrow streets, the familiar alleys, the little shops and corner markets you’ve learned to trust—they blur beneath your swing. You’re moving into parts of Blüdhaven that are still familiar in your bones—you know the routes, the intersections, the shortcuts—but they’re different here. Wider streets, taller buildings casting long shadows, streetlights reflecting off slick asphalt like scattered diamonds. Cars buzz past with more impatience than the rusted Cambria clunkers. People shout from doorways or honk horns in frustration, unaware of the chaos threading through the night.

You curse under your breath. They’re fast, reckless, and now they’ve noticed you. They speed up, weaving like maniacs, their headlights stabbing through puddles, painting the buildings in stark, chaotic flashes of white and yellow. Your muscles ache, your breath is ragged, but you can’t let them get away—not with whoever they’ve got with them.

Past Melville Park now, the open space flashing below, your webs cutting the air. You see neon signs, a diner spilling orange light over the sidewalk, a few scattered late-night walkers who glance up but don’t recognize you—never do. The city here feels almost… normal. Cleaner streets, more cars, more movement, but the danger is amplified. One wrong step, one miscalculated swing, and you could hit a car or a passerby.

The motorcycles screech into an alley, their engine notes raw and wild. You follow, landing silently on a fire escape, crouched, breathing shallow. The woman. Held against the taller rider, her eyes wide, terrified, body trembling.

You exhale slowly, letting your senses spike. This stretch of alley is unfamiliar, a sharp bend in the city that feels like a transition zone—Cambria behind you, safer streets and tighter vigilance, and ahead, somewhere between commerce and chaos, the unknown. Trash cans rattle in the wind, loose metal grates shift under your weight, the fire escape ladder above could be a ladder to safety—or an obstacle for whoever thinks they can escape.

You crouch, feeling the slick rooftop under your feet as the rain begins to soften the concrete. Cambria is familiar, stitched into your memory, the blocks memorized like the veins in your own hand. But you’ve learned that the rest of Bludhaven changes—different districts, different rules, different dangers. You’ve patrolled them all, in your mind, through your city knowledge, even if your legs only take you through Cambria. Tonight, though, the danger has brought itself to you.

The alley smells like oil, wet asphalt, and something coppery—the tang of fear and adrenaline. Your ears pick up every detail: the faint scuff of boots against wet brick, the uneven drip of water from a broken gutter, the distant hum of neon from the streets beyond. And then… the girl. The girl’s terrified whimpers cut through the damp night air, slicing straight through your focus. 

You drop into the alley with a calculated thud. Your knees bend, absorbing the impact, the subtle crunch of debris beneath your boots barely audible. They don’t have time to register your presence, only to jerk toward you, guns trained, bodies tense.

“Hey, guys,” you say, voice calm, casual, low enough to be heard but not alarming. “Would you mind letting the kind woman go, please?”

The man with the gun laughs, sharp and cruel. His tone scratches at your patience. “We’ll fucking kill her if you take another step.”

You let your shoulders slump fractionally, almost a shrug. “Yeah. Everyone always say that.”

The girl faints, collapsing into his arms. The scent of her perfume—floral, faintly citrus—mixes with the metallic tang in the alley. Your gut tightens. Shit.

Your stance shifts, instinctive. One step forward, senses flaring, mind running through every possible angle.

Something’s off. Not the bikers. Something else. A shift in the shadows.

exhale, the air pushed slightly off its axis. Someone’s here. Not moving like a thug, not fumbling like a criminal—someone who knows how to move without announcing themselves.

A pressure in the air, subtle but undeniable, like the alley itself is holding its breath. Someone’s here. Someone unseen. Your head tilts, listening, the small vibrations against brick and metal ringing in your ears. The adrenaline that had begun to fade surges back, quick and sharp, your muscles coiling.

You notice it before anyone else. The smallest disturbance—weight hitting concrete differently, a faint 

Your eyes flick to the corner of the alley, but it’s too dark. You don’t see them, not yet. But you feel them.

“Let’s talk this through, yeah? You let her go, walk away…” You keep your voice calm, deliberate, buying time. Focus, sense the angles. The man with the gun shifts nervously, his partner even more so.

Then—it hits again. Closer this time. Behind him.

A streak of movement, a flash of something darker than the night. The man jerks, gasping as his neck is locked in place. A flicker of movement just behind the other guy. Subtle, almost invisible. You know.

And then—snap.

The second thug’s back stiffens, a low grunt tearing from his throat as a flash of black swings across his vision. An escrima stick strikes, chokes, immobilizes—he doesn’t know what hit him.

Nightwing.

You don’t even blink. Your body reacts first. Webs fire in an arc, one catching the gun in midair, snapping it from the man’s grip. You yank him off balance, twisting to deliver a knee strike, rain and grime sliding beneath his boots.

Everything clicks. You feel the alley through your fingertips, through the soles of your boots, through the constant hum of your reflexes. Now.

You fire a web in a perfect arc. It hits the gun with a snap and twang, yanking it out of his hand. He stumbles toward you, arm trapped. You twist, driving your knee hard into his chest. Wet concrete and rain splash under him, his breath rasping.

The girl begins to topple. Reflexively, you step forward, catch her under her arms, holding her close. Her fear radiates against your chest, shaking your ribs with the force of it. You pull her behind you, shielded. 

Behind you, a crackle, a sharp pop of current, then another grunt. Nightwing moves with precision, the other man convulsing as he’s struck by the tasing end of the escrima stick. Then, silence.

Just the rain, dripping off the fire escape, hissing against neon, and your own uneven breathing. You can feel the alley, the slight pitch of the ground, the placement of trash bins, the loose bricks—every detail becomes a tool, a lifeline.

You straighten, surveying. The girl is trembling but intact. Nightwing stands, calm, efficient—the way only someone with years of control can. His escrima sticks are holstered, chest rising slowly with quiet, measured breaths. Rain drips from the edges of his mask, soaking the collar of his suit, hissing faintly as it hits the pavement.

And you? You feel that buzz again—the mix of exhaustion and adrenaline, the awareness that the city is bigger than your little district, but right now, right here, you are the one who protects it. 

For a beat, the two of you just stand there, rain dripping down your masks, the night heavy with electricity and quiet triumph. The alley smells like wet asphalt, metal, and something faintly acrid—burnt rubber, maybe, from the motorcycles. Every shadow seems sharper now, every glint of puddle a mirror reflecting the neon haze of the city beyond.

Finally, you exhale, letting the tension bleed out, your voice low. “Thanks for the assist.”

He hesitated, eyes narrowing, then scoffed—not aggressively, but with a note of surprise, maybe even frustration. Probably thought I was some kid in a mask, flailing around trying to be him. That pissed you off. You had experience. You’d trained yourself, fought for every inch of skill you had. You didn’t need anyone’s approval, especially not his.

He stepped closer, instinctively reaching to steady the girl in your arms, like he assumed you couldn’t manage.

Excuse me?

She might have been a foot taller than you, sure—but you had no trouble. Your muscles coiled and flexed without strain; lifting her, shifting her, keeping her safe was just instinct. You subtly shifted back, planting yourself between him and her, feeling the rain slicking your gloves. Every inch of your stance screamed hands off.

Recognition hit mid-movement. Her mother. The diner. The neon coffee signs. The smell of pies like Sunday mornings. She was part of your little corner of the city… yeah, this was Sally Smith. And right now? Right now, Sally just needed to go home.

Protective instinct flared, immediate and non-negotiable. You didn’t need words—every motion, every slight adjustment in stance, every tightening of your grip on her arm communicated the message loud and clear. Hands off.

You let your senses stretch, tracking him in the shadows, listening to the faint drip of rain, the distant hum of the city, the way the wet pavement amplified every subtle sound. You didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was reassessing you, realizing this wasn’t some rookie flailing through the dark. 

Then he stepped closer, voice low but firm, cutting through the patter of rain. “I don’t have a problem with you, but I can take it from here. Please, hand me the girl.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, feeling the instinctive twitch in your spine, the muscles in your legs coiling like springs. No. Absolutely not. Every fibre of you screamed, hands off.

The alley felt smaller suddenly, tighter with the tension radiating from him, and yet somehow, your senses expanded—tracking his movement, the faint scrape of his boots against wet asphalt, the shift in his balance as he prepared to act. The rain-slicked air carried the scent of burnt rubber and damp concrete, sharp and metallic, pressing against your nose, your lungs drawing it in without thinking.

“I don’t think so,” you said, voice low and steady, a warning that carried the weight of unshakable authority. You shifted subtly, bracing, and felt the Sally's shudder against you. “I’ll be taking her back to her mom now.”

Nightwing’s stance stiffened, a flicker of surprise passing through the otherwise unreadable mask. He paused, calculating, probably reconsidering his plan. You could feel the quiet hum of his respect—but it was grudging. Maybe he thought I’d hand over someone I’d saved like some rookie, some green kid in a mask. He hadn’t counted on experience, on instincts honed by years patrolling these streets, by knowing the people who called this district home.

Your gloves flexed around her arm, rain dripping down your wrists, slipping off the fabric of your suit in slick trails. Every heartbeat thrummed through your chest, a steady drum of readiness.

“Look,” he said finally, tone tighter now, “I’m just trying to make sure she’s safe.”

You let a small exhale slip out. And so am I.

“She’s safe with me,” you said, even and quiet, your eyes scanning the dark corners of the alley. Your fingers brushed the edge of your hood without thinking.

“Listen, Nightwing — I know you probably don’t give two shits about who I am or what I do for the part of Blüdhaven you don’t bother protecting, since I’ve been doing an amazing job here. So, I’ve got this.” Your grip on Sally tightened by a fraction, not enough to hurt her, just enough to underline the point. “So go stop a flower shop from getting broken into or something — God knows that’s been happening way too much.”

Shadows danced across his mask as he studied you. You could almost feel the gears turning in his head: she’s fucking crazy.

And that—that—made your chest tighten with a mix of satisfaction and tension. You didn’t need his approval. You didn’t need his help. You never had. But you could see him, standing there, measuring, respecting, recalculating. For the first time tonight, the alley wasn’t just a battlefield. It was a silent negotiation of territory, authority, and trust.

The next move was his.

And he had to take a step toward you. You didn’t move, just standing tall, letting your stance scream that you weren’t backing down. You assumed he could see your eyes under the shadow of your mask.

“I’m sorry, kid, I can’t trust you with that responsibility. Hand her over and go home.”

Oh, you were livid. Every word made your teeth grit.

He moved closer, and now you could see him in sharper detail—the way the mask clung to the sharp planes of his face, the dark loose curls that fell just so over his forehead, that stupid, infuriating smile meant to disarm. Fuck him.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, sharp and bitter. What a joke.

“I’ll tell you something about responsibility, kid—” you seethed, voice low and edged with fury, cutting through the drizzle and the tension like a knife.

He scoffed, “I’ll have you know, I’m a grown man—”

“Yeah,” you snapped, cutting him off mid-word, “and I’m a grown-ass woman. So if you think for one second I’m being irresponsible—”

“Ma’am, you are being irresponsible. Let a professional handle this—”

“A professional? Last I checked, sir, you’re not even legally allowed to be doing this! Half the police and government hate you—”

“That’s completely irrelevant—!”

“The fuck it is!”

And then—

“Spider-Woman?”

Both of you froze.

The voice cut through the tension like a bell. Sally’s eyes were wide, sharp with recognition. Relief and awe tangled together in the same expression, softening her features that had been tense and pale just moments ago. She wasn’t panicked anymore, just shocked. And she was looking at you first—the red and black webbed suit, the hood casting shadows over your mask, the precise movements that had saved her seconds ago.

Your muscles tensed automatically, every sense sharpening. The faint quiver in her voice, the breathy catch of air as her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly—it made your chest tighten in that familiar mix of exhaustion and pride. For one beat, the argument with Nightwing faded into background noise.

You allowed yourself a small, almost imperceptible nod, your fingers flexing lightly around her arm—not in warning, but grounding yourself. Her safety was your responsibility. And tonight, that didn’t change, no matter who was standing in front of you.

“Are you alright, Sally—?”

“Miss, are you alright—?”

You locked eyes with Nightwing as he started to talk over you, a flash of exasperation passing through your gaze. Then back to Sally, letting her find her footing. Her knees were shaky, but her eyes were sparkling, bright with relief, and—oh, wow—she was grinning. Wide. Unrestrained.

“Oh my god! You’re Spider-Woman, right?!” she burst out, her voice bubbling over with awe and excitement. The joy in her tone made your chest tighten again, though this time in something like warmth rather than tension. She’d literally just been kidnapped, and still… here she was, thrilled to see you.

“I—I can’t believe it!” she added, spinning slightly as if to show you she was okay, then hesitating, her gaze flitting toward Nightwing, confusion registering. “And…uh, shit—Darkfeather?”

You didn’t even bother answering her question. Nightwing’s presence suddenly felt inconsequential, background noise. She was looking at you, the one who had stopped the threat, the one who had saved her.

“Anyways, thank you! You saved me!” she squealed, voice breaking with relief. “My mom told me about that time you stopped the diner from getting robbed! And all my friends, they… they always talk about how amazing you are! I… I can’t thank you enough!”

You shifted slightly, letting her regain her balance fully, still holding her but looser now. Her words hit you in that weird way that made the adrenaline pulse in your veins and the exhaustion in your limbs fade a little. Pride. Recognition. Real, human gratitude.

And all the while, Nightwing just… stood there, watching. Noticing her focus wasn’t on him. Her awe, her joy, her relief—directed entirely at you.

Your lips quirked into a faint smirk under the mask. Some things—like recognition, trust, the neighbourhood knowing you weren’t just a shadow—were far more satisfying than any fight. Far more rewarding than impressing even the city’s best-known vigilante.

Sally’s laugh bubbled into the night again, a little shaky, a little giddy. And you? You let yourself just stand there, letting her soak in the safety you’d brought, the little spark of her neighborhood hero alive in her eyes.

Nightwing? He could handle the city. You’d handle Cambria. And right now, right here, that was enough.

“I’m glad I could help you, Sally—”

She shrieked again, voice pitching up like a firework. “YOU KNOW MY NAME?!”

You blinked, a laugh slipping out despite yourself. “Yeah, your mom owns the diner on Maple, right? Best meat pie in Cambria.”

Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes huge, almost tear-bright. “Oh my god—oh my god, you’ve been there?!”

“More times than I should admit,” you said, grinning under the mask. “Your mom keeps trying to feed me like I’m in a growth spurt.”

Sally’s face lit up with something close to disbelief, like she’d just discovered Santa Claus existed—and was from her zip code. 

A deep voice cut through her moment of awe.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Nightwing said, stepping up beside you. “You’re safe now.”

The rain filled the pause that followed, soft against the asphalt, like even the city itself was holding its breath.

Sally glanced at him—briefly, politely—then back at you, her wide grin shining even through the wet strands of hair plastered to her face. “Of course we’re safe—Spider-Woman’s here!”

The corner of your mouth twitched. You shot him a glance—brief, flat, and sharp, the kind that said I told you so without a single word. He looked away first.

Turning back to Sally, your voice softened. “Are you hurt? Did they take anything from you?”

She shook her head quickly, curls sticking to her damp skin. “N-no… I think I’m okay. Just shaken. They grabbed me off the sidewalk—said something about needing cash. I didn’t even see them coming.” Her voice wavered slightly now that the adrenaline was fading.

You nodded, steadying her with your tone. “You’re safe now. I’ll make sure you get home, okay?”

Sally opened her mouth—probably to gush again—but Nightwing cut in, voice calm, clipped, polished to an edge. “I can escort her. I’ve got a vehicle two blocks down.”

You turned toward him slowly, eyes narrowing beneath your mask. “I said I’ve got it.”

He froze, expression unreadable beneath the shadows of his cowl, shoulders stiffening just enough to betray irritation. The subtle push and pull between you was electric—two protectors, two egos, one narrow, rain-slicked alley.

The drizzle hissed softly around you, mixing with the distant hum of the city. Sally blinked at both of you, wide-eyed, as if she’d stumbled into some strange, polite turf war.

She laughed nervously. “I’ll be alright, mister… uh—”

“Nightwing,” he supplied, sharp.

“Oh! Right. Nightwing,” she corrected herself, hand flying to her head. “I’ll be okay. Spider-Woman knows her way around my area anyway.”

You nodded along with her words, letting the pride settle quietly in your chest. “Yeah, she’s right. Maybe you can drop those guys at the station with your vehicle, hm?”

Nightwing’s chest rose sharply. His stance stiffened, fists tightening at his sides beneath the shadows of his gloves. “You’re—” he started, clipped, almost a hiss through the damp night. “You’re taking her home yourself? That’s—”

“Safe,” you finished for him, stepping forward just enough to assert it, the woman shielded between you both. Rain dripped off your hood, beading along the curves of your mask. “Safe, comfortable, not at risk. She knows me. She trusts me. You? Not so much. You’re a grown man, right? You can go and use all that strength and testosterone to bring those guys in over there.”

He exhaled through his nose, low and sharp, a frustrated sound you could practically feel in your chest. “This isn’t a game. You’re lucky I’m here right now. You would’ve been—”

“I’ve handled it,” you cut in smoothly, letting the calm precision in your voice sharpen the words like a blade. “I handled it. Every step. And now I’ll be taking her home.”

His eyes—dark under the cowl—narrowed. You could see the tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders. Every muscle in him screamed at you to hand over authority, to follow his plan. But he couldn’t. Not while you were Spider-Woman in Cambria. Not while he knew, somewhere deep down, that you’d earned every inch of this territory.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing?” he scoffed, a note of disbelief creeping in. “You think I don’t know the risks—”

“I know the risks,” you interrupted, letting your tone settle into sharp, steady calm. “And I’ve weighed them. I’ve always weighed them. I know this city. I know the streets. I know the people who live here. And I know how to keep them safe.”

He exhaled sharply again, frustrated, eyes flicking to Sally, then back to you. “You’re reckless. Irresponsible. You think swinging around in a mask gives you authority? Authority isn’t given—it’s earned.”

You let out a small, humourless laugh. “Oh, honey. I’ve earned it. Every night. Every shift. Every person I bring home safe. That’s earned. Not the city telling me I’m allowed to protect what’s in my heart.”

His fists clenched again. The tension in his shoulders doubled as he stepped closer, trying to assert presence without closing the distance completely. “You’re lucky I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you asked, voice low, almost a growl. “Take the woman from me? Knock me down and sweep in to save the day? I’ve been doing this long enough to know you’re thinking it. I can read it in the way you’re standing. In the way you’re breathing. In the way your hands twitch.”

For a heartbeat, you saw the surprise flash in his eyes. Then the frustration came roaring back, more visible now, hotter, like a flame you were daring him to swallow. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered, teeth clenched. “I can’t believe you think you can do this alone.”

“I don’t think,” you said, letting the words hang heavy in the rain-soaked alley. “I know. And if you’re smart, you’ll let me.”

Sally shifted slightly behind you, tugging at your arm in quiet gratitude. “I… I trust her,” she murmured.

That was the final straw. Nightwing’s jaw tightened, his hands opening and closing like he was wrestling with every instinct in him to intervene anyway. But he didn’t. Not yet. Not while Spider-Woman had the final word.

You inhaled slowly, rain dripping from the tip of your hood, muscles coiled and ready. In that instant, everything crystallized in sharp focus: Nightwing could handle Blüdhaven. You’d handle Cambria. And no one—no one—was taking that away from you tonight.

You turned to Sally, completely disregarding the brooding mass of black and blue beside you. “You don’t get motion sickness, do you?”

“Uh, nope!” she said, a mixture of excitement and nerves sparkling in her voice.

You smiled beneath your mask. “Perfect. Is it alright if I hold you here—?” You slipped your arm gently around her waist. She stiffened for a heartbeat, then relaxed, and you thought you saw the faintest blush peek through. You could feel Nightwing’s presence beside you, tense, unimpressed, probably judging as he silently rolled his eyes. Sally just nodded, gripping you a little tighter, bracing for the first swing.

With one last glance over your shoulder, you met Nightwing’s shadowed silhouette. His posture remained stiff, expression unreadable beneath the cowl, but you caught the brief flicker of…something. Respect, maybe. Recognition. You’d carved your space here, and he knew it.

“Thanks for your help, Nightwing,” you said softly, voice carrying that edge of finality that made it clear you didn’t need it in the first place.

a/n: i love this chapter sm

Even so, this route sucked. The outskirts of the Cambria district. Narrow alleyways, rusted dumpsters leaking something foul, flickering neon signs that buzzed ominously—yet it was still the fastest way to the hospital she was currently at. Every instinct screamed wrong, but he kept moving, hugging the wall at one turn, quickening his pace when a distant shout echoed from behind a crumbling warehouse.

The air was thick with Blüdhaven’s signature cocktail of wet asphalt, burnt rubber, and something that might have been rot. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, fading into the night—a lonely reminder that, unfortunately, the city couldn’t sleep. His fingers brushed against the strap of his satchel, tapping a nervous rhythm. 

One step at a time. Avoid the puddles. And pray the flower shop wasn’t closed.

He could almost hear her teasing voice in his head, the sharp lilt that carried nothing but affection beneath it:

"Richie-boy, hasn’t anyone taught you that every time you see a lady, you bring her flowers?"

He huffed out a quiet laugh and shook his head. Alfred had said something along those lines a lifetime ago, and yet here he was—still ignoring his own mentors. He hadn’t put that advice into practice… but tonight, he would.

Ninety-five percent of the time, Dick Grayson had a plan. Tonight was that dazzling, overconfident ninety-five. A month ago, he’d spotted a flower shop tucked into the corner of this same route—a small, cozy place with warm light that used to spill over the cracked sidewalk, softening even Blüdhaven’s sharpest edges. The old woman working there had smiled at him once—gentle, knowing—and somehow, it had stuck.

Perfect. There it was—just down the block, across the street.

He slowed as he neared the corner, expecting to see that familiar amber glow in the window. But the shop looked different tonight. The display lights were off, petals pressed like shadows against the glass. Only one bulb still burned somewhere in the back, faint and yellow, flickering now and then like a heartbeat.

He frowned. That wasn’t right. It was probably closed, sure, but that looked incredibly suspicious. He squinted across the street—and froze. Two figures floated around the front of the shop. The front door was hanging slightly open, one hinge creaking every time the wind pushed through. The glass had spider-webbed at the edge, a crack running jaggedly down the frame.

Dick’s stomach tightened.

He scanned the street—empty. No footsteps, no passing cars. Just the hum of the flickering sign above the door and the faint scent of crushed stems in the air.

“Great,” he muttered. “Because breaking and entering is totally how you buy flowers.”

He crossed the street in three long strides, boots splashing through a shallow puddle. The night had settled heavy—thick clouds, low fog curling off the asphalt, the kind that swallowed sound whole. Every instinct he had sharpened in an instant. He paused at the shop’s glass door, fingers brushing against the cool pane. Inside, the light blinked once and died, leaving only darkness.

Yeah. That wasn’t normal.

He slipped inside, silent as breath. The faint chime of the bell over the door gave a dull click—he caught it mid-ring with two fingers and eased it still.

The space was dim, shapes barely outlined in the spill of streetlight filtering through the blinds. The flower shop that had seemed so soft and inviting a month ago now looked… unfamiliar. Ghostly. Rows of stems and dried arrangements hung like silhouettes. The air smelled faintly of old roses, damp soil, and that clean floral sweetness that clung to everything.

He scanned the front with quick precision—left to right, corners, mirrors, blind spots. Years of habit layered over instinct.

No movement.

He shifted forward, weight balanced over the balls of his feet. The boards under him didn’t creak. He had learned long ago how to move without leaving a sound.

Behind the counter, the register drawer hung open, coins scattered like loose teeth across the counter. A vase lay on its side, water dripping in steady, tiny beats onto the tile. His ear twitched toward the sound—rhythmic, harmless. Nothing else.

He crouched low, eyes flicking to the reflection in the display case glass. The aisles behind him were empty. The faint hum of the city outside didn’t reach in here. It was too still.

He moved toward the back, each step a calculated glide. A stack of cardboard boxes blocked part of the hallway—he checked behind them, slow and deliberate, hand hovering for something that he didn’t have strapped to his back.

Nothing.

His ears strained for the smallest disturbance—a breath, a shift, a whisper of fabric. Nothing came. Just that faint, earthy scent of greenery and dust.

Then he saw them. Wooden stairs, narrow and steep, leading up to a shadowed landing. The door at the top hung slightly open, swaying just enough to catch a sliver of light from above.

He exhaled quietly, once. Then looked back—one more sweep of the room. Clear.

He started up the steps, barely brushing the wood, the kind of control only acrobats and ghosts had. His hand brushed the railing—rough grain, still faintly warm from the day’s sun.

He was three steps up when something shifted. A flicker of motion.

Up on the landing—silhouetted by a thin beam of light—someone stood like a statue, watching him.

“Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my shop?”

Dick stopped. The voice was a blade: controlled, furious, threaded with the kind of anger that comes from someone ready to defend what’s theirs.

His eyes tracked the outline of an arm, the stiff set of shoulders, and then the small, uncompromising shape in the hand. A .22. Compact. Familiar. Held like it had lived there for a long time.

Hands up, slow and open. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice flat and careful. “That’s a fair question.”

You took the stairs down like you hadn’t made a sound at all—basketball shorts falling past one knee, mismatched socks, a sports bra that would’ve been laughably cold for normal bedwear—and the gun never wavered.

 Shadows cut across your face; your eyes were knives. 

And they were beautiful.

Focus.

He wondered, briefly, how he hadn’t heard you. Then he shoved that thought away and catalogued what he could: the gun’s grip, the way your thumb rested near the safety, your stance—solid, practiced. You weren’t panicking. You were protecting.

“I said—what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snapped.

He started backing, a measured shuffle, avoiding overturned vases and stray petals. “I’m not here to rob you,” he said, voice calm but firm—his standard police de-escalation tone. “I thought someone else was in here—”

“Congratulations,” you spat. “You’re that someone else.”

He winced. “Okay, fair.”

His back hit the counter, cool and splintered against his jacket. The shop smelled like bruised flowers and damp soil; the little drip from a knocked vase kept time in the silence. He listened—really listened—because someone could still be hiding in the aisles, under a workbench, up in that loft.

His mind worked like trained muscle: de-escalate verbally, maintain clear sightlines to exits, and buy time for a safe sweep. Keep your hands visible. Use calm, plain speech.

“Shut the fuck up, stop talking,” you snapped.

He exhaled softly. “Shit—okay. Sorry. It’s not what it looks like.” He offered a rueful half-smile, apologetic rather than threatening. “Please—put the gun down?”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “Excuse me? You break into my shop and tell me to put my gun down? Fuck no.”

Dick’s thumb twitched toward where his escrima stick would be if he were in uniform—the reflex of a life spent in costume. He fought it down, slowly pulling his hands out of his pockets.

With measured authority, he pulled out his badge and flipped it open with a practiced flick. “Officer Dick Grayson, Blüdhaven Police Department. Please put the gun down.”

Your answer was slow, dangerous: “Sure, buddy, and I’m Harley Quinn. Back the fuck up. Five seconds to give me anything you stole and get off my property before I put a bullet between your perfect eyebrows, alright?”

He let out a breath, half-laugh, half-surrender. “Thanks, I guess—”

The gun didn’t lower. Not an inch.

Dick slid his hearing to high—training, not magic—catching every subtle sound: the rack of plastic forks, a whisper of movement, the metallic scrape of a ladder. His brain calculated exits, cover, and distance.

If someone else was here, they'd move—and make a sound.

He held his badge up steady.

“Five—”

“No, I was planning to buy some flowers and—”

“Four—”

“—There was a light on and someone inside so I thought you were open—”

“Three—”

“—so I came inside but then the person disappeared—”

“Two—”

“—please listen to me I think someone is still here—”

“Sorry, what?” you snapped, the gun twitching like the question cut through your concentration.

You blinked, half-annoyed, half-curious—then, as you exhaled and the gun slipped an inch lower, a shape exploded out from behind a low shelf.

Dick’s reflexes fired on instinct; he started to pivot—

—but you were faster.

You didn’t even look. Your body reacted before your eyes tracked the movement, one hand shooting out behind you like you’d known it was coming. You caught the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, right as the knife in his grip arced toward your ribs. The metal never even grazed you. A sharp twist, a fluid turn of your hips, and the man’s arm bent the wrong way with a grunt of pain.

He stumbled forward; you stepped in, used his own weight, and sent him face-first into the floor with a thud that rattled a vase somewhere behind the counter. The knife clattered across the tile.

Dick blinked. The whole thing had lasted maybe two seconds.

He’d seen good reflexes. He’d fought meta-humans, assassins, League dropouts with cybernetic augments. But that—whatever that was—looked like precognition. You had moved before the man had even finished coming out of cover.

Your breathing didn’t spike. You barely looked shaken. One knee on the guy’s back, you nudged the knife away with your socked foot and leveled the gun again, expression flat.

The man groaned. Dick’s brain was still catching up to what he’d seen.

He crouched automatically, hands still raised in a peaceable gesture even as his instincts catalogued the details: your grip on the assailant, the way your weight balanced perfectly, the slight tilt of your head like you were listening to something he couldn’t hear.

You turned your gaze on him for half a second. Sharp. Assessing.

Then you brought the gun back up. Again.

He sighed again, at least you were better safe than sorry.

“Don’t move” you asked dryly.

He exhaled a shaky laugh, eyes flicking from the guy on the floor to you. “Sorry sweetheart. I was clearly right about someone being in here, would you mind, y’know, the gun in my face?”

“What if this is part of it? Getting my guard down? Either you’re new to the city, pretty boy, or you trust people that you meet in the dark way too easily.”

 Dick’s mouth opened, some half-smart reply already forming, when a soft sound cracked the air— a clatter of glass.

Your head whipped toward it first, gun snapping to aim before he’d even turned. A vase—or what used to be one—was now a scatter of shards near the counter.

Dick’s brain snapped tactical. Too deliberate to be random. Distraction.

 “Stay behind—” he started.

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision. A shadow uncoiled from the left aisle—silent, practiced, too fast for a panicked thief. Dick’s muscles tightened; he began to pivot, but you were closer.

You were only halfway turned, gun still trained forward, when a gloved arm threaded around your neck. A blade kissed the soft skin beneath your jaw, cold as winter and just sharp enough to score. You froze for the barest second—then your eyes slid sideways, calculating. Calm.

Dick stopped like his feet had hit cement. The man’s voice rasped, low and urgent: “Drop it.”

You did not.

Dick could read the stuff beneath the surface in a single glance now—the assailant wasn’t steady. His breathing came in quick, hot pants; his fingers shook around the knife’s hilt. Every defensive micro-tension in his body screamed this was robbery by someone more scared of consequences than intent.

“Easy,” Dick said, voice soft steel. “Let her go, don’t do anything you’ll regret.” He kept his hands visible, fingers splayed—nonthreatening but ready.

Your eyes flicked to him, sharp and raw—an almost-wordless exchange of assessment. You heard him. You cross-checked your sources and realized Dick wasn’t the one to break in. The man at your neck huffed once, jerking his chin toward Dick. “You—boy,” he panted, voice ragged. “Help us out, here. Grab the register, put it in the bag, we split. Nice and clean.”

He clenched his jaw—more offended than afraid. “You gotta be joking.” His voice was flat. “You want me— a noble officer of the law— to help you steal from a beautiful lady who literally pointed a gun at me five seconds ago?” He let incredulity do the work of anger. “Not a chance, man.”

Then the blade kissed your skin and a small bead of blood welled and fell to the tiles. It hit the floor with a wet, muffled sound that made something inside Dick twist.

The robber’s panic spiked; his grip tightened. “Do what I fuckin’ say!”

Dick didn’t reach for a weapon. He didn’t need to. He moved instead like the acrobat he’d been trained to be—small, precise, deceptive. He inched his shoulder toward the counter, shifting the angle just enough to slide into the attacker’s blind spot. His right hand, the one closest to the man’s arm, flicked out—not in a broad motion that would force the man to react, but in a clean, practiced twist to the wrist.

Time stretched. The robber yelped as his own knife-arm was wrenched; his elbow buckled. You, who had been pinned, seized the moment like reflex: your free hand shot back, catching his wrist. Together—two practiced motions synced without a word—you flipped his momentum. The blade clattered away, skittering across tile.

The man hit the floor with a curse. You didn’t miss a beat: one foot came down on his shoulder, gun raised again, voice flat. “Stay the fuck down, bitch.”

Dick had the guy’s other arm pinned with a knee before the robber had a breath to protest. His grip was firm and controlled—trained, owed to his years in costume and time as an officer with the Blüdhaven Police Department. The taste of adrenaline thrummed in his ears; his mind already lined up next moves—call it in, secure the scene, check for cameras, get statements.

The robber’s eyes darted between them, suddenly small. “Okay—okay—please—we’ll go—” He tried to make his voice smaller, less dangerous.

Dick let out a slow, controlled breath and gave the man a look that was equal parts scolding and tired. “Good. You’re gonna stay right there.” He glanced up at you, face softening just a hair. “You alright?”

You didn’t lower the gun. Your hand grazed the nick at your throat, then to the filament he’d noticed earlier—the thin white thread clinging to the cuff of your shorts. You plucked it free, letting it hang on your finger for a second, like a meaningless curiosity, and then dropped it.

Dick watched it fall and felt something click in the back of his brain. What an interesting florist.

Even in the chaos, he noticed the way a few strands of hair had escaped your messy bun atop your head, curling against your neck and forehead. You looked like you were on the verge of collapsing into bed, utterly disheveled—but beautiful in a way that made him forget half the danger in the room. His chest gave an almost imperceptible hitch.

He crouched, palm steady on the robber’s shoulder as the man’s breaths evened. “I’ll call it in,” he said calmly, reaching for his phone. “You should—” He stopped and softened. “You should get that checked. That nick—”

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said, voice small for the first time, the hard edge retreating a fraction. “Please call it in.” Your gun hand trembled only slightly as you lowered the muzzle an inch, enough that Dick could see the muscle in your jaw working.

Dick glanced at the guy on the floor, then back at you. “Here.”

He shrugged, peeling off his jacket in one smooth motion. The dark fabric fell over his arm, and he held it toward you.

You raised a brow, unimpressed but curious.

His gaze flicked briefly—just for a heartbeat—down to your sports bra and the exposed skin of your arms before darting back up. A faint flush rose on his cheeks, the kind that only appeared when Dick was caught off guard by something human he shouldn’t notice.

“Just… in case,” he said, voice low and careful, “you know—there’s gonna be a lot of people on their way and—”

You let out a short laugh, the tension in your shoulders loosening a fraction. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He handed it over, watching as you slipped into the oversized jacket. The sleeves swallowed your hands; the collar brushed the edge of your jaw. He found himself noticing the slope of your shoulders beneath the fabric, the strands of hair that had escaped your bun and caught the lamplight, soft and careless. A flicker of admiration stirred—one he didn’t bother to hide.

“And—sorry, what was your name?”

You gave him a look that was part tired, part fierce. For the first time since he’d come in, it softened just enough to hint at something private behind the glare. With a resigned sigh, you told him your name.

He cleared his throat—trying, and mostly failing, to shake off how distracting you were. “Noted. I’m Dick. Also—uh, I should probably explain—I’m an officer with the Blüdhaven Police. Technically off duty right now. I was just passing by on my way to visit someone.”

He glanced around the wrecked shop, lowering his voice. “Since I’m off duty, I won’t bombard you for a statement. I’ll wait for my colleagues.”

His eyes flicked to you again—your posture, the faint tremor in your hand as the adrenaline ebbed, the way exhaustion sat behind your eyes. “And you’re… surprisingly calm,” he muttered, half to himself.

You sighed under the jacket’s collar, eyes glinting faintly. “You have no idea.”

He hadn’t come in expecting anything beyond a quick bouquet run. Now he was crouched beside a subdued robber, handing a stranger his jacket, and realizing with a quiet, uneasy thrill that nothing about this night was going to be simple.

Dick’s fingers twitched toward his phone again, dialing. Outside, the city pulsed—wet asphalt reflecting neon light, sirens echoing in the distance like a promise that Blüdhaven never really slept.

***

You didn’t have trust issues. But you did have common sense.

So, of course, you didn’t trust the beautiful stranger that first claimed he was part of the Blüdhaven Police Department and was trying to “stop a robbery,” not commit one. Your mind ran through the scenario again, eyes flicking to his posture, the way he moved with careful precision, hands deliberate as he sorted shards of broken vases into neat piles. The now very obviously legit badge that was on the counter.

He had insisted on staying while you waited for the cops—saying he’d make sure nothing else happened, it was his “duty” to. You raised a brow at that, suspicious. There was something almost too eager in his offer, too smooth, like the way people said the right thing to get what they wanted. Could he be doing this whole “saviour act” so he’d get close enough to… well, hit it. You clenched your jaw, keeping your thoughts internal. Not tonight. Not now.

And yet… he had a careful, almost painstaking way of handling the mess. The flowers that had toppled onto the floor, crushed petals scattering like confetti, he was gently picking them up, placing the broken stems aside without stepping on anything. Even the shards—he’d insisted on carefully removing the bigger pieces from the floor first, glancing at your socked feet as if to say, don’t hurt yourself. You hadn’t expected him to notice, hadn’t expected anyone to notice, really. That small, almost imperceptible thoughtfulness stabbed through your suspicion. Maybe he wasn’t just another pretty face with good reflexes. Maybe he actually gave a fuck.

Your shoulders itched from tension, the adrenaline still humming faintly through your veins. Your gun rested against the counter now, unloaded but within reach, just in case. Your heart hadn’t fully slowed from the knife at your throat, from the surreal speed with which you’d neutralized the first assailant.

You caught yourself glancing back at him, really watching this stranger. How fast he had reacted to the attack. How fluid and instinctive his movements had been— twisting and taking down the guy without hesitation. Not a flinch, not a wasted motion. It was like he’d done this a hundred times before. Only a cop? Maybe special forces? Something like that. You didn’t know, and you didn’t need to. But it made him dangerous in a way that was undeniably… impressive.

Dick hummed softly as he worked, a quiet rhythm to the movements you couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t just about putting the shards in a bin or gathering fallen flowers—he moved around the space in a way that made sense, every step calculated to avoid further damage. He glanced at you once, just briefly, when you were reorganizing the bouquets onto shelves, and there was no leer, no smirk. Just… presence.

You tried to remind yourself that it wasn’t enough to let that soften your guard. He was still a stranger. He could still be lying. Still could have ulterior motives. But, begrudgingly, you admitted a small truth to yourself: this cop might genuinely be a good person. Not because he was handsome, not because he had heroic reflexes, but because he was quietly thoughtful, careful, and he’d noticed things you didn’t expect him to.

You exhaled slowly, letting your muscles relax a fraction. The on-duty cops would be here soon. The assailants groaned together by the door, tied up enough to keep them from moving but not enough to hurt them unnecessarily—another quiet thoughtfulness, you realized. Maybe he had instincts for this, for people, for the balance between control and compassion.

You didn’t say anything. Words weren’t necessary. You were tired, raw from adrenaline, from vigilance—but not shaken. This kind of thing wasn’t new. You’d stopped worse men in darker places. It was just supposed to be an easy night for once.

As you worked alongside him, rearranging petals, stacking vases that hadn’t shattered, you allowed yourself the tiniest flicker of acknowledgment: maybe he wasn’t just another stranger who’d walked into your shop at the worst possible moment. Maybe he was… something else. Someone who didn’t immediately make your skin crawl. Someone worth watching. And for now, that was enough.

He cleared his throat—again. That nervous tick, or habit, didn’t escape your attention. “So… does your shop get broken into often or…?”

It was hard not to let your judgment show, the corner of your mouth tugging into the faintest smirk. “What are you implying, officer?”

He winced, hands frozen mid-stack of petals. “You can call me Dick, y’know—off duty and all that… But yeah, sorry. I just mean, you seemed prepared, is all.”

Prepared. You raised a brow. “Prepared?” you echoed, stacking a bundle of daisies with deliberate precision. “You mean, like I keep a gun by the stairs and know exactly how to use it on intruders?”

He ducked his head, sheepish. “Well… yeah. I mean, it’s impressive. You handled that guy—” he jerked a thumb toward the subdued assailant tied up by the door “—like it was nothing. Faster than I could’ve anticipated.”

You let out a short laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “Faster than you could’ve anticipated, huh?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice softening. “It’s… not something most people could do. You were pretty brave. Even with a knife at your neck.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Is it because I’m a woman?”

It wasn’t cruel to admit you enjoyed the flash of regret on his face, even if you were only teasing.

“I didn’t mean—”

You laughed, waving him off. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

Still, the smile lingered. Not that you’d ever say it aloud, but it was nice—in a quiet, exhausted way—to have someone notice. Someone who wasn’t here to question your strength or write a report. Just… checking if you were okay, because they actually cared.

When you looked back at him, you caught that same watchful expression again—not judgmental, not prying. Just noticing. Evaluating. Maybe even impressed.

“And you?” you asked, sweeping up another line of glass. “You do this kind of thing often, or…?”

He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You mean… chasing robbers and saving flower shops at night? Yeah, kinda my thing. Definitely part of my job description and skill set.”

You snorted. “Skill set. That’s one way to put it.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, a spark of something unspoken there—amusement, maybe curiosity. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “I’m glad I could put it to use tonight.”

You arched a brow. “Yeah, lucky me. Right place, right time, huh?”

He gave you that half-smile again—too practiced, too easy—but the sincerity beneath it was impossible to miss. “You could say that.”

Silence settled, not awkward but weighted—filled with the hum of everything that had just happened. The shop smelled faintly of crushed lilacs and damp concrete. Outside, the rain kept falling, a steady rhythm against the glass.

Silence settled between you again, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with the hum of everything that had happened. The shop smelled faintly of crushed lilacs and damp concrete. Somewhere by the window, the “Open” sign flickered weakly, a heartbeat of neon against the rain outside.

You busied yourself sweeping up glass fragments into a dustpan, your mind finally starting to quiet. Dick moved with you, still careful, still oddly patient. He glanced at the two tied-up men every now and then, but never looked tense about it—like he’d done this before. Like it wasn’t new.

Which, honestly, made you wonder.

Who are you, really? Not just the badge, not the perfect posture, not the soft hands sorting broken glass like it mattered. The way he moved—too confident, too clean—didn’t belong to an ordinary cop. You’d seen cops. Worked around them, dodged them, helped them without ever letting them know. They didn’t usually feel like this—steady, careful, aware.

“Blüdhaven PD, huh?” you said, leaning on the broom, testing him. “You always this hands-on when you’re off duty?”

He chuckled, low and rough, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes I forget how to turn it off.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, part amusement, part disbelief. Forgetting how to turn it off wasn’t something you could imagine anymore. Not when your reflexes lived under your skin, ready to flare at the smallest sound. You hadn’t been able to turn it off in years. Even now, in a space that smelled like home—like lilies and wet earth—you could still feel the pulse in your wrist, that low, vibrating hum of readiness.

“Must be exhausting,” you murmured, voice softer than you meant it to be.

He shrugged, gaze lifting to meet yours. “Some nights are worse than others.”

You nodded, understanding more than you cared to admit. He didn’t have to explain it. The constant switch between civilian and soldier—cop, vigilante, whatever—ate at the edges of you, until normal life just felt like another mask. You wondered if he knew that feeling, too. Judging by the way his shoulders held tension even when he smiled, you figured he probably did.

For a few seconds, you just stood there—the two of you framed in the dim glow of the shop’s backlight, surrounded by overturned vases and scattered petals. The rain outside softened against the glass, steady and rhythmic, a sound that should’ve been soothing but wasn’t.

Then the faint wail of sirens began to rise in the distance, a reminder that this wasn’t over yet.

Dick sighed softly, straightening. “Guess that’s my cue.”

You followed his gaze to the door, where red and blue light started to bleed through the glass, smearing the puddles in colour. The tied-up men stirred at the sound, one groaning as if realizing what came next. You exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from your shoulders. “Finally.”

He glanced at you, that same small, sympathetic smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey,” he said quietly, nodding toward your throat, “you did good tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, though you didn’t mean it. “You already said that.”

But the corner of your mouth betrayed you—just a little. You weren’t used to hearing it said like that. Not the empty good job, ma’am, from some rookie, not the forced praise people gave when they didn’t know what to do with capable women. His voice carried something else—recognition. Like he’d seen what you did, understood what it cost, and didn’t feel the need to make it smaller.

“Yeah,” he admitted, “but you didn’t believe me the first time.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

As the flashing lights grew brighter, he reached for his badge again, clipped it back to his belt. The shift in him was subtle but immediate—posture straighter, voice a touch more formal. The cop again. Not the stranger who’d handed you his jacket.

“Grayson!”

Dick’s head turned at the call of his name. He gave you a small, almost reassuring smile before heading for the door, where three uniformed officers were pushing inside—radio static and the damp smell of rain clinging to their jackets.

The shop filled with movement again—not chaos, exactly, but a practiced rhythm. Radios crackled, boots scuffed the tile, someone called in plate numbers. The air changed; it always did when uniforms entered a scene, all efficiency and tension and that faint scent of gun oil and paper reports.

You stayed on the counter, legs swinging lightly, broom still in hand like a prop. Composed. Quiet. The worst of the adrenaline had burned off, leaving behind the familiar hollow buzz you got after a fight—an echo of energy with nowhere to go.

One of the cops—a younger guy, broad shoulders, tired eyes—approached you. He looked like he wanted to say something reassuring, but his gaze caught on the gun sitting by the register, the way you swung your feet. You didn’t bother explaining.

“I’m fine,” you said before he could open his mouth. “Just do what you gotta do.”

He hesitated, searching your face for a beat, then nodded and peeled off to start sweeping the store for evidence. Good. You didn’t need anyone’s pity. You’d been through worse nights with worse people.

Your attention drifted back to Dick.

He stood near the door with two of the officers—one helping haul the tied-up robbers to the patrol car, the other talking to him in that particular way men talked to someone they envied but couldn’t quite admit it. You couldn’t hear every word, not over the static of radios and the scrape of boots, but the tone was unmistakable.

Wedly, his name tag read. Older. Thin-lipped. The kind of guy who looked at everyone like they were wasting his time.

You tilted your head, watching as Wedly leaned in slightly, voice dropping. Whatever he said, it made Dick’s jaw tighten—not much, just a flicker at the corner. The easy calm you’d seen on him earlier didn’t quite reach his eyes now.

You caught fragments—off duty, huh, and clean work for a civ call—spoken with that smirk you’d heard a thousand times from men who thought they knew better. Dick’s reply was even, polite, professional—but the faintest edge of irritation cut through it.

Then Wedly’s gaze slid toward you. You felt it before you saw it—the way it lingered too long, slow and deliberate. Your spine went cold.

You shifted on the counter, tugging Dick’s jacket tighter around yourself, zipping it up to your collarbone.

Dick noticed. Of course he did. His attention snapped back to you like instinct, and for a heartbeat, your eyes met across the room. Something wordless passed between you—his expression tightening, yours holding steady.

He didn’t make a scene, didn’t call it out. But his body shifted, subtle as a shadow—placing himself between you and Wedly’s line of sight as he started walking back over.

And that, maybe more than anything else tonight, made you pause.

You didn’t need protection. You could’ve handled it. You’d handled worse. But it wasn’t about need—it was about recognition. About the rare kind of person who didn’t just want to be seen as good, but who quietly chose to be good when no one asked them to.

You exhaled, leaning your elbows on your knees, eyes following him as he approached. Maybe, you thought, watching the rain bead along the glass, Dick Grayson really was one of the good ones.

When the other officers moved toward the back, checking doors and broken glass, the tension in the room shifted. Dick leaned against the counter beside you—not close enough to crowd, but close enough that you didn’t feel on display anymore.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, staring down at your hands. “I’ve had worse nights.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said, a small, wry smile pulling at his mouth. He flipped open a small notepad—actual paper, not a tablet—and clicked his pen. “All right. Just walk me through what happened, start to finish. No rush.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly despite your exhaustion. “Off duty, huh? I thought that meant… you know… not paperwork and statements and… cops in my shop.”

He chuckled, shrugging. “Yeah, normally it does. But… this? Overtime. I’d be getting paid either way, might as well make sure everything’s done right, and… you seem like someone who knows how to handle herself. Easier to take your statement than let someone else dig for it.”

You blinked, noting the subtle way he didn’t make a big deal of it—just… efficient. Just… aware. And you, of course, were aware of it.

“Fine,” you said, voice quiet, almost tired. “But I’m not a victim. I don’t need coddling.”

He nodded, flipping the page on the notepad. “Not looking to coddle. Just… making sure I get the facts straight, so the guys outside know exactly what they’re dealing with.”

You leaned back against the counter, feet dangling, and began recounting the events. Your voice was calm, clipped—every movement, every choice, every reflex explained without embellishment. He wrote steadily, eyes flicking up occasionally, not to judge, not to pry, just to see that you were okay.

Somewhere behind you, Officer Wedly lingered, pretending to inspect a toppled shelf but clearly sizing you up. You noticed the way his gaze lingered a little too long on your body, and you crossed your arms, tightening your jacket around yourself. Dick, still leaning casually but watchful beside you, noticed too. Not a word. Just a slight shift in stance, the smallest protective gesture, subtle but unmistakable.

For once, a cop wasn’t treating you like a liability, a mystery, or some fragile civilian who couldn’t handle herself. Just someone who’d done her job and deserved to be respected for it. That acknowledgment—quiet, unspoken, and deliberate—hit harder than any adrenaline rush or knife threat from earlier.

“And your shop license number,” he said, voice gentle, still scribbling, “in case we need to follow up.”

You gave it, plain and simple. No frills, no hesitation. You didn’t need to feel protected; you just… appreciated that someone was paying attention in a way that wasn’t invasive. Dick jotted it down, clipped the notepad closed, and looked at you with a small, approving nod.

When you finished, he nodded, closed the notebook, and offered a small, genuine smile. “You did good.”

You gave a tired laugh. “Is that Officer Grayson’s official report?”

“Off the record, and off-duty opinion,” he said. His voice dropped again, low and warm. “But yeah.”

You met his eyes. The city light caught in them—a mix of blue and gray, reflecting the neon bleeding through the window. You didn’t say anything more. You didn’t have to.

For the first time all night, you let your shoulders relax.

Your fingers were tacky from the fruit container balanced in your lap, syrup catching the light and gluing faint threads of sugar between your knuckles. The air smelled like metal and sun-warmed asphalt, that specific kind of midday heat that made everything a little slower, a little drowsier. You plucked another lychee from the plastic cup, its skin half-peeled and soft from condensation, and popped it into your mouth. The flesh burst under your teeth, cool and translucent, the juice bright and floral on your tongue—sweet enough to sting.

The sugar hit your bloodstream in a quiet rush, syncing with the hum of a distant power line and the low drone of cicadas hiding in the weeds beyond the truck. Nearby, Economos was mumbling something to himself about inventory, his voice blending with the rattle of metal as he shifted gear around.

Something clanged beside you—a heavy thunk that made the whole truck bed jolt. Probably Harcourt. You didn’t even flinch. Just tilted your head back against the metal side, sunglasses slipping a little down the bridge of your nose, and called out, voice lazy and syrup-sweet, “Anyone want some lychee?”

A couple of noncommittal noises answered—half sighs, half groans. Whether they were of frustration or admiration, you couldn’t tell. Either was fair.

Leota—bless her heart—called back, “I’m good!”

And that was that. For a blissful second.

Until he opened his mouth.

“Y’know it’s pronounced lee-chee, right?”

You didn’t even bother lifting your head. Just smiled, slow and a little condescending, letting the sun soak into your skin.

“Nope,” you said, popping the p with satisfaction. “It’s lai-chee.”

From somewhere near the gear pile came a short scoff. Fucking Smith. Of course.

He straightened up, already squaring his shoulders like you’d just challenged him to a duel instead of a vowel sound. 

“It’s lee-chee,” he said, enunciating like he was teaching a toddler.

You tilted your head, sunglasses sliding a little lower down your nose. “That’s crazy, because you’re still talking when I literally just said it properly.”

A pause. The sound of a bottle cap hitting the truck floor.

“It’s lee-chee,” he repeated, louder this time, like maybe volume could prove him right.

You plucked another fruit from the cup, turned it between your fingers. Sticky light pooled in your palm. “Lai-chee,” you said again, sing-song this time.

“Lee-chee.”

“Lai.”

“Lee.”

The back-and-forth went on like that for a few rounds, your voice syrupy and unbothered, his getting more and more affronted, until even Emilia muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Jesus Christ, they’re both insufferable.

You could feel his stare drilling into you now, all puffed-up righteousness and barely-contained grin. So you did the only reasonable thing.

You flicked the lychee at him.

It hit him square in the chest with a wet splut.

There was a beat of silence—John froze mid-scribble, Leota snorted into her hand, and Emilia didn’t even look up.

Then Smith looked down at the sticky spot on his costume like he’d just been personally betrayed. The pale juice had already started to dry in uneven streaks, turning glossy under the sun.

“You wasted a perfectly good—”

“—lai-chee,” you cut in sweetly, voice dripping with mock innocence.

He pointed at you with a crumpled napkin, shoulders squared, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or bark. “You’re crazy.”

You smiled wider, the kind that showed teeth. “And you’re wrong. It was molding inside anyway.”

At that, he scoffed—this incredulous sound that came out halfway between a laugh and a growl—and glanced down at the little splatter by his boot. “Thought you killed people for littering?”

“Yeah,” you said lightly, sliding off the tailgate. “I did. I just wanted to throw something at you.” You crouched, grabbed the sad, dirt-dusted lychee between two fingers, holding it up like evidence. “But I’m gonna pick it up now.”

“Wow,” he muttered, rubbing at the stain on his chest. “Real model citizen.”

You flashed him a grin over your shoulder. “You’re welcome for the public service demonstration.”

He said something back—something about “attitude problems” and “angry fruit fairies and their weird tiny hands”—but his voice was already fading into the background as you wandered toward the trash bins.

The air by the dumpster was thick with the sour tang of rot and wet cardboard. The lid creaked when you lifted it, the inside buzzing faintly with flies. Somewhere behind you, Leota was trying (and failing) to change the subject—something about the plan, the timing, what Goff’s schedule looked like—but Smith's voice kept cutting through, stubborn, unfiltered, impossible to ignore even when you tried.

You dropped the lychee in, wiped your hands on your thighs, and turned back toward the truck—

—and that’s when you noticed the flicker.

Something shifted behind the dumpster like a shadow trying not to be seen. Not a person moving down the alley so much as a shape folding itself into the trash: a shoulder, a helmet edge, a boot toe. Your stomach did that practiced little flip-call when the world offered chaos as a gift.

You slid a hand to the small of your back and felt for your .22. It was light and honest in your palm, a low little tool that liked the taste of restraint. You didn’t plan to start a war over curiosity—this was reconnaissance territory, not a murder scene. Still, you always liked to be prepared.

You circled the bin slow, the gravel crunching under your soles, scent of wet cardboard and grease thick in your nose. From the corner of your eye you could see the outline of a suit: dark blue, parts bolted to plates, straps that suggested someone who liked toys and didn’t care whether they came with registration papers or government approval. There were more things attached to it than a man had any right to carry. That told you everything you needed to know: this wasn’t a stray kid with cosplay. This was someone who’d thought about violence like a hobby.

You were already half-bent to lift the lid when Emilia’s voice cracked from the truck, bright and sharp as a starter pistol.

“Hey! Get outta here!”

It should’ve been the end of it—some kid runs, tail between his legs. But the shape moved like a thing with plans, steady and careful. A breath came from behind the can, low, oddly casual and almost… offened.

“What?” the suited man called, stepping out from behind the bin like that was supposed to make him look less suspicious. His voice carried that cocky edge only someone doing something obviously weird could have. “I’m just looking from behind a trashcan. It’s a normal thing to do!”

You blinked. “The fuck it is,” you muttered under your breath. Emilia’s sharper, louder version followed right after:

“The hell it is!”

Yeah, she had this under control. Her tone had that bored, just-fuck-off bite to it—the kind that usually ended with a guy on the ground and her only half-annoyed about it. You let your hand rest near your .22 anyway, just in case this moron decided to make himself memorable. Your fingers were still sticky from the lychee you’d eaten; sugar glued the edges of your nails, catching dust as you shifted your weight. You could hear Johnny muttering to himself over by the truck, the clank of metal cases being stacked, the soft hiss of the air compressor.

The guy kept talking—something about “just watching” and “being a psychiatrist”—and honestly, that was your cue to zone out. He started walking away, mumbling under his breath, and you let the safety in your brain click back on. Fine. Drama over. Emilia didn’t need backup.

You were halfway turned toward the truck when he came back.

Like actually came back.

Pivoted on his heel, swaggered the five feet back toward the dumpster like he’d forgotten to say something important. The stupidity of it hit you before your patience did. You felt the tiny, involuntary twitch in your jaw—the one that usually came right before a very bad idea.

You sighed through your nose.

That was it. You’d had enough of this shit.

The next few seconds were instinct—muscle memory and irritation linking arms. You pushed off the gravel, the sole of your boot crunching through something wet. Your shoulder connected with the man’s center of mass before he could even register you’d moved. The sound was solid—bone meeting kevlar, breath leaving lungs. You took him down hard enough to knock the wind out of both of you, the crash echoing off the brick and the dumpster like gunfire.

“Holy shit!” John yelped from somewhere behind you. A notebook hit the pavement, pages fluttering like panicked pigeons.

The guy beneath you made a sound halfway between a grunt and a question, like his lungs hadn’t gotten the memo about how to function under pressure—literally. His armor clinked as he shifted, the glossy blue plates scraping faintly against the asphalt. You adjusted your weight just enough to make sure he stayed down, your knees pinning his wrists against the concrete. The scent of metal and faint detergent rose from his suit, oddly clean for someone who’d just been caught lurking behind a garbage bin.

His visor reflected you perfectly: dark lenses, wild hair pulled loose from your bun, the slow, smug curl of an I-told-you-so smile growing on your mouth. Your pulse thudded steady, the mix of adrenaline and satisfaction humming through your limbs like caffeine.

Emilia’s voice tore through the moment like a whip crack.

“What the hell are you doing!?”

You tilted your head toward her, still a little breathless, sunlight flashing off your shades. “He was taking too long to leave,” you said simply, as if that explained the laws of physics, gravity, and your complete lack of impulse control.

Because honestly? It did.

By now, the team was used to it. You had a bad habit of handling problems the way other people handled doorknobs—grab, twist, done. And now, apparently, so did this guy.

He groaned under you, voice muffled by the helmet. “Okay, I’m not going to retaliate—so you know I’m not a threat—and, uh, since you’re… conventionally attractive, I’m gonna let that slide. But just so you know? I think you made me rebruise my tailbone.”

That made you snort. The kind that cracked through your chest before you could stop it—entirely genuine. You leaned back a little, still straddling him, and turned toward the rest of the team over your shoulder.

Emie stood with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised like she was deciding between amusement and homicide. And Peacemaker— fucking Smith— oh, he was grinning. Fully entertained, thumbs hooked into his belt like he’d just found front-row seats to his new favourite show.

“Thanks, Sunshine!” Smith called from across the lot, voice all smug warmth, like this was somehow your fault and his entertainment rolled into one.

You shot him a look over your shoulder, squinting against the sun bleeding down the edge of the roofline. “Community service,” you said, deadpan. The light caught on your tracksuit—bright enough to make you look more haloed than heroic—and you made a point of brushing a fleck of dust off your sleeve like this was routine.

Beneath you, the man wheezed out a cough. His armour creaked faintly as his chest moved, a sound halfway between a complaint and disbelief. “Feels more like assault, actually,” he managed.

You glanced down. His visor mirrored your face back at you—a smear of gravel dusted his shoulder where you’d shoved him down.

“Then maybe next time,” you said, leaning just enough that your shadow cut across his ridiculous helmet, “don’t creep around garbage cans like a raccoon in cosplay. This shit’s classified.”

He raised his hands—or tried to, since your knees were still pressing his arms down. “But Peacemaker is like, literally my best friend! I’m just here to help!”

You blinked. “Who the fuck are you, anyways?”

“I’m Vigilante, duh.”

You blinked again, slower this time, incredulous like you were trying to see if the letters rearranged into something that made sense. “NO, NOT DUH! I DON’T KNOW WHO THE FUCK YOU ARE!”

Smith was doubled over laughing now, the sound ricocheting off the truck beds and metal like someone throwing coins into a well. His armor clanked every time he convulsed and it went through you like nails on a chalkboard—sharp and bright and something you wanted to silence. You felt the irritation like static behind your teeth.

Emilia—already halfway to a migraine—pressed the heel of her hand to her temple and pinched the bridge of her nose the way someone does when they’re trying to stop the world from spinning. “Okay, [Name]. It’s fine. Let him go.”

You sighed—a big, theatrical thing that tasted faintly of sugar and dust—and rolled off him. Gravel rasped beneath your boots, the sound small and earthy as you pushed yourself up. The air was thick with late-morning heat and motor oil; a fly circled lazily near your shoulder.

“Fine,” you said, brushing your palms against your thighs, “but if he does anything weird, I’m gonna throw him in that ditch.” Your tone was mild, but the promise in it made Leota whistle under her breath.

He blinked up at you, helmet gleaming, voice half-muffled. “Thank you, ma’am.”

You cocked a brow. “No thanks. Don’t call me ma’am. Makes me feel old. I’m not old—Murn’s old.”

The word sat wrong in your mouth, brittle and formal, like a chipped teacup.

“Alright, Miss,” he corrected, with that over-earnest tone that made it so much worse.

You pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, needing to actually see this clown you’d just body-slammed. The lenses left faint smudges of sugar and dust against your hairline. Vigilante—or whatever his name was—was still brushing at his suit, dislodging bits of gravel from the crevices in the armor. Tiny stones pinged against the asphalt, sharp little taps.

He moved like a spring wound too tight—every motion just a bit too quick, too eager. And every time you spoke, his head snapped toward you, the mirrored visor catching sunlight in fractured gleams. Like a raccoon with ADHD.

Behind you, the truck creaked as someone shifted gear. The air buzzed faintly with the hum of a distant power line.

Right on cue, Murn appeared, clipboard in one hand, a case in the other. His expression was all business—the kind of tired that came from years of dealing with idiots. “Alright,” he said, voice steady, setting the case down beside the truck with a solid thunk. Everyone straightened instinctively.

And then Vigilante, somehow still in his own universe, announced brightly, “Totally stoked to meet you all!”  He pivoted toward the group with both hands on his hips like a game-show host. “—Especially you,” he added, turning that mirrored faceplate squarely toward you, “even though I don’t trust any of you.”

You blinked, unimpressed, one hand finding your hip. “Thanks…?”

He nodded solemnly, as if that sealed something important, then turned back toward the group. “But just remember, Peacemaker—these people aren’t the kind of best friends you’d bring home to your dad!”

Smith groaned audibly, scrubbing a hand down his faceplate. “I wouldn’t be able to bring any of them home to my dad,” he snapped, already counting off on his fingers. “Sunshine and Harcourt are women, Murn’s Black, Adebayo’s both! And don’t even get me started on Dye-Beard!”

John froze mid-bite of his granola bar. “Dude.”

Chris threw up his hands, exasperated. “What!? I’m just saying what my dad would be thinking!”

Murn’s expression didn’t shift, but you could feel the silence sharpen around him like he was calculating how many bullets were in his clip.

Vigilante nodded sagely, totally missing the point. “Okay, valid. But if anyone’s gonna be your friend, it should be her,” he said, pointing to Leota.

The group experienced a collective confusion.

You tilted your head slowly, sunglasses sliding a little down your hairline. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Cuz,” Vigilante continued, voice bright and utterly confident, “there’s a bunch of rumors going around about you being racist—”

Smith's head whipped around so fast his helmet clinked. “What!? Who said that!?”

You blinked, eyebrows climbing. “Wait—you’re racist?”

“What!? No—shit, no! I love people of colour! Look!”

He lunged toward Leota, hand outstretched for a high-five like a toddler proving friendship. She didn’t move, just blinked at him once—slow and with the exhausted grace of someone who’d seen too much.

“Uh-huh,” she said finally, voice flat as pavement. “That’s convincing.”

The silence that followed was almost merciful. Almost.

A car passed somewhere down the road, engine humming low, and a gust of warm air dragged the smell of asphalt and cut grass across the lot. Vigilante still stood there, arm frozen midair like he was waiting for approval that would never come.

Emilia finally broke, sharp and precise as a snapped wire. “Okay,” she said, voice edged with that particular kind of patience that meant she had none left. “Get the fuck out of here. We have more important stuff to do.”

Her glare was pure steel—chin tilted, hands on her hips, the morning light catching on the pale gold of her hair.

Vigilante hesitated, his helmet tilting like he was waiting for someone—anyone—to say just kidding. “Wait—you don’t, like, need backup? Because I’m totally free today. My schedule’s super open.”

“Not anymore,” She said flatly, already turning away like she could physically will him out of existence.

You tried to smother a laugh and failed spectacularly, your mouth twitching as you turned it into a cough. The sound still slipped out—a small, traitorous noise that drew his attention like a laser sight.

He perked up immediately. “Oh, you think I’m funny.”

You leaned your elbow on the truck bed, sunglasses sliding down your nose. “I think you’re still here, which is impressive considering she told you to leave five seconds ago.”

Smith snorted. “She’s got you there, dude.”

“Excuse me,” Vigilante said, pointing between you and Emiilia like he was building a courtroom case. “I just risked my life to—uh—offer moral support.”

“Moral support?” she echoed, tone sharp enough to shave steel. “You were stalking us from a garbage bin.”

“I was helping!”

You raised one brow. “She said out, Garbage Boy.”

He gasped like you’d hit him with a slur. “That’s almost classist.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it personal.”

That seemed to finally compute. He stiffened, brushed nonexistent dust off his armor, and tried to reclaim a shred of dignity that had long since left the scene. “Alright! I see what’s happening here. You’re all playing hard to get. Classic.”

You just shook your head, grin curling despite yourself. “Yeah, that’s it. Real heartbreaker, you.”

He gave an exaggerated two-finger salute, stepping backward toward the street. “Don’t worry—I’ll be around. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Unlikely,” Emilia muttered.

“See you soon!” he called, before breaking into a full sprint that made his armor clatter like a drawer of utensils being shaken by God.

The quiet that followed was blissful. Tangible. Like the air finally unclenched.

Smith let out a low whistle. “You gotta admit, dude’s got commitment.”

You flicked a stray lychee peel off the truck bed, deadpan. “So does mold.”

Emilia exhaled like a prayer. “Everyone in.”

Murn didn’t even glance up from his notes. “We have a butterfly to catch.”And just like that, chaos fell back into order—well, Peacemaker’s version of it—as the truck rumbled to life and you all climbed in, the faint smell of lychee and gunpowder trailing in your wake.

...