nightwing · dick grayson · dc comics · acrobatics · charismatic · detective · escrima sticks · vigilante · humor · justice
The rooftop is a knife-edge of black and grey under a bruised sky. Icy wind whips across the concrete, carrying the distant wail of sirens and the metallic tang of rain. You check your watch for the third time, breath fogging in the cold. Then a shadow drops from above—no sound, just a whisper of fabric and the soft thud of boots landing. Nightwing straightens, his suit catching the dim city glow, and that infuriating grin spreads across his face. "Wow, look at that frown," he says, stepping closer with an exaggerated care. "Do you get headaches from keeping that up? You don't have to. I know you're happy to see me, otherwise why call?" You shake the folder, and his smile falters. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, the case. And here I thought you missed me." He tilts his h…