Chapter Text
Dick Grayson woke with a jolt, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. His body was drenched in cold sweat, and his chest heaved as though he’d been running for hours. Heart racing, eyes wide and unfocused, it took him several moments to register where he was.
His room at his safehouse. Not the damp alleyways of Gotham. Not the dark basement where two young boys were chained to a filthy wall.
His hands gripped the sheets tightly, shaking, muscles taut as if ready to leap into action. He forced his eyes shut, trying to ground himself. Just a dream. It’s just a dream. He breathed in deep, the chill of the night air biting at his damp skin.
But the images from his nightmare still clung to him, like shadows lurking just at the edge of his consciousness.
He'd had a rough patrol. The kind that burrowed under your skin and stayed with you even after you hung up the cape. The kidnapping case, the two boys—they'd found them eventually, but not soon enough. The scene kept replaying in his head: dark rooms, muffled cries, the stench of fear and despair.
No wonder he couldn’t shake it.
Dick rubbed a hand down his face, his fingers brushing the slickness of sweat across his brow before combing through his hair. He felt exhausted, but the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix. His muscles ached with the tension that came from hours of chasing phantoms, but now he was haunted by different ghosts. The fear on the boys’ faces when he and Bruce had finally found them… that had stayed.
3:27 AM. He checked the clock on his nightstand. The glowing red numbers pierced the darkness of his room. His mouth felt dry, parched, like he hadn’t had water in days. Why do they always have to be kids? he thought bitterly.
He had saved them. He reminded himself of that. Those two boys were safe now because of him and Bruce. But that didn’t make the weight any lighter. He’d been in their shoes once. Alone, frightened, no way out. He knew too well how long it took for those kinds of scars to fade.
The safehouse was eerily quiet, even for this time of night. The silence wasn’t comforting, though. It felt oppressive, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for another scream, another cry for help that only they could hear.
He stared up at the ceiling, the shadows of the room stretching long and thin in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. He closed his eyes again, forcing his mind to calm, to stop replaying the horrors of the night. But the darkness behind his eyelids was just as bad. His mind kept wandering back to those faces. The boys. The fear. The desperation.
His breathing hitched, his chest tightening. He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face again, this time trying to shake the lingering remnants of the nightmare. The room felt too small, the walls too close. He needed air.
He sat up slowly, the bed sheets clinging to his legs as he moved. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the floor, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. His breathing was still uneven, his skin still clammy. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him like a second skin, suffocating in its closeness.
No. Just breathe.
Getting to his feet, Dick moved slowly toward the kitchen, each step feeling heavier than the last. His limbs were sluggish, weighed down with fatigue and the lingering effects of whatever his mind had conjured up while he slept. The small apartment was bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight streaming in from the wide windows. It painted the room in shades of blue and silver, casting long shadows that danced and shifted with every step he took.
He didn’t bother turning on the light. He didn’t need it. The apartment was small, and after spending so much time in it, every corner, every edge, every little detail was imprinted on his memory. He moved through it as easily as he would’ve the cave, his hands steadying themselves on the familiar surfaces as he passed them.
The kitchen was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. He reached for the cabinet without thinking, opening it and grabbing a glass, his hands shaking more than he liked to admit. He held the glass under the faucet, turning on the tap. The sound of the water rushing into the glass filled the silence, a steady, calming noise that allowed him to focus on something outside of himself.
But his mind was still restless, still caught in the grip of the nightmare. He couldn’t shake the images—those two boys, their tear-streaked faces, their eyes wide with terror. It was the fear that got to him, the fear that he understood too well.
The glass filled up slowly, the cool water rising to the brim as he stood there, staring at it with a dazed sort of detachment. When it was full, he lifted it to his lips and drank deeply, the water soothing his parched throat, but doing little to ease the tightness in his chest. He drank it all in one go, the cold liquid sliding down too fast, leaving him feeling slightly lightheaded.
He refilled the glass, setting it under the tap again. It’s just a dream, he told himself, repeating the words like a mantra. It’s over. They’re safe. You did your job.
The water stopped, and he switched off the tap. The apartment was quiet again, the silence thick and heavy, pressing down on him like a weight. He stood there for a moment longer, staring into the half-filled glass, the moonlight reflecting off its surface in shimmering ripples.
Just as he turned away, ready to retreat back into the solace of his room, a sound pierced the quiet.
Laughter.
Soft, high-pitched laughter, the kind only a child could make. It was faint, almost like it was carried on the wind, but unmistakable. The sound froze Dick in place, his heart skipping a beat. It couldn’t be.
He turned slowly, his breath catching in his throat as he listened. There it was again—laughter, but closer this time, as though it was coming from somewhere within the apartment. A boy’s laugh, light and innocent, and utterly out of place in the dead of night.
The glass in his hand slipped slightly, his grip tightening instinctively before it could fall. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. It’s just your imagination, he told himself. You’re tired. You’ve been working too hard. You’ve seen too much.
But the laugh came again, this time accompanied by the faint sound of running feet. Small, quick footsteps, like a child playing.
Dick’s heart was pounding now, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He set the glass down on the counter, the sound of it clinking against the marble too loud in the eerie silence. His senses were on high alert, every nerve tingling with the kind of adrenaline that only came in moments of true danger.
He stepped out of the kitchen, moving carefully, his bare feet making no sound against the floor. The apartment was still bathed in moonlight, everything cast in those same silvery shadows. But now, there was something else—a strange, oppressive feeling that seemed to hang in the air, thick and heavy.
The laughter echoed again, and Dick’s eyes snapped toward the living room. The shadows there seemed deeper, darker, as though the moonlight couldn’t quite penetrate them. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, every instinct screaming at him that something was wrong.
But there was no one here. He was alone. He had been alone when he went to bed, and he was still alone now.
This is just your mind playing tricks on you. He tried to rationalize it, but the sound of those small, running feet—it was so real. So vivid.
Forcing himself to move, Dick stepped into the living room. The air was cooler here, the temperature dropping noticeably as he crossed the threshold. His breath fogged slightly in front of him, and that oppressive feeling grew stronger, weighing down on him with every step.
He paused in the middle of the room, eyes scanning the shadows, heart hammering in his chest. The laughter had stopped, replaced by a thick, suffocating silence that felt even worse.
For a moment, he wondered if he should turn on the lights, but something deep inside told him that it wouldn’t help. The darkness was here for a reason, and it wouldn’t be chased away by something as simple as a light switch.
A creak. Soft, barely noticeable, but enough to make his skin prickle. It came from the hallway, leading to his bedroom.
Dick’s pulse quickened, and he moved toward the sound, every step deliberate, cautious. He kept his breathing slow, his senses honed in on the slightest noise, the faintest movement.
The hallway stretched out in front of him, the shadows long and deep. The moonlight barely reached here, and for the first time in a long time, Dick felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Another creak. Then—barely audible—the sound of breathing.
He froze, his body tense, every muscle ready to spring into action. He could hear it now, faint but unmistakable—the sound of someone breathing, shallow and quick, as though they were hiding just around the corner, waiting for him to come closer.
His hand instinctively went to his waist, but his utility belt was back in the bedroom. He hadn’t thought to bring anything with him when he got up. Why would he? He was in his own apartment, alone.
Alone. Or at least, he thought he had been.
The breathing continued, growing slightly louder, more labored, like someone struggling to stay quiet. Dick took a step forward, his body tense, his mind racing through a dozen different possibilities.
Suddenly, the laughter came again—sharp and clear, echoing down the hallway, and this time, it was much closer. He flinched, his heart skipping a beat. His eyes darted toward the sound, but there was nothing there.
No one.
The laughter stopped, leaving an almost suffocating silence in its wake.
And then, from behind him—closer than before—a voice. A child’s voice, soft and almost playful.
"Why didn’t you save me, Dick?"
The room felt like it tilted for a second, the voice sending a shiver down his spine. It was a whisper, but it felt like it was spoken directly into his ear. He whipped around, fists up, ready to fight—but there was nothing. No one.
Just shadows.
Dick backed toward the kitchen slowly, his heart pounding in his chest as his body tensed, every instinct screaming for him to be on guard. He had dealt with fear before, with nightmares and sleepless nights filled with the horrors of Gotham. But this—this was something different.
His mind was playing tricks on him, surely. His body was still shaking off the aftereffects of that damned nightmare, the kidnapping case with the boys replaying itself over and over again in the dark recesses of his mind. The echoes of their terror, their helplessness.
He froze, standing at the threshold of the kitchen, the comforting light of the moon spilling through the window. It bathed the room in a soft glow, highlighting the counter, the cabinets, the sink—everything still and familiar. But the rest of the apartment behind him was a black void, cloaked in shadows so deep that they seemed to be waiting, watching.
Dick squinted into the darkness, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His eyes strained, trying to make out something—anything—that would explain the laugh. The footsteps. The voice.
But there was nothing there. Just the shadows, silent and unmoving.
The rational part of his brain tried to assert itself, tried to remind him that he was alone, that what he’d heard wasn’t real. It was just the nightmare, he told himself again. A fragment left over from his subconscious. Nothing more.
A shaky laugh escaped his lips as he rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the cold sweat still clinging to his skin. He could feel his pulse racing under his fingertips, too fast, too erratic. He chuckled to himself, the sound weak, scared even, but he needed something—anything—to break the tension in the air.
"Get a grip, Grayson," he muttered under his breath, trying to shake the fear that still crawled up his spine. He turned back toward the sink, picking up the glass of water with hands that weren’t as steady as they should’ve been.
It was just a dream. He’d had worse. Hell, he’d lived through worse.
The cold water hit his lips, and he drank deeply, trying to quench the dryness in his throat. But no amount of water could wash away the feeling creeping up his back, the sensation that something wasn’t right.
Something was watching him.
He finished the glass in one go, setting it down on the counter with a soft clink. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. His head was pounding, the images from his nightmare still fresh, still vivid. The boys—God, the boys. He knew what fear looked like, he’d seen it a thousand times before, but it was different when it came from children.
They’re safe, he reminded himself again. You did your job. You saved them.
He turned away from the sink, ready to head back to bed, back to the quiet solitude of his room where he could force himself to sleep, or at least pretend to.
And then— STEPSTEPSTEP.
Dick’s body reacted before his mind could. He spun around, heart leaping into his throat as something—a shadow—darted past the kitchen.
He flinched, jerking backward with a sharp intake of breath, his hands trembling as he tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. His stomach dropped, ice-cold fear shooting through him like a bolt of electricity.
The glass slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp crash that seemed to echo through the entire apartment. The sound of it shattering, the pieces scattering across the tile—it was too loud, too real.
Dick stood frozen, his breath coming in panicked gasps, his eyes wide, locked onto the spot where the shadow had just passed. His heart pounded in his ears, each beat like the ticking of a bomb, counting down to some unseen disaster.
The room was still again. The kitchen, bathed in moonlight, was quiet. The shadows on the floor were long and thin, creeping up the walls like tendrils of smoke. The glass lay in pieces at his feet, glittering like shards of ice.
His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the shadows, searching for movement. Searching for whatever it was that had just sprinted past.
But there was nothing.
No sound. No footsteps. No laughter.
The only noise was his own ragged breathing, too loud in the stillness of the room. He took a step back, careful not to move too fast, not to make too much noise. His body was tense, ready for a fight, but the apartment remained silent. There were no more shadows moving, no more sounds to suggest that anything was there.
But he had seen it. He knew he had.
It was just your imagination, he thought, but the words felt hollow, like a lie he couldn’t quite believe. His muscles were still coiled, adrenaline pumping through him, his senses on high alert. His gut told him that something was wrong, that he wasn’t alone.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the water. His hands were still trembling, fingers itching for the familiar feel of his escrima sticks or the comforting weight of his utility belt. But he was in his apartment. There shouldn’t be anything here to fight.
Except... there was.
There had been something. He hadn’t imagined it. That shadow had been real. He was sure of it.
His eyes swept the room again, lingering on the darkened corners where the moonlight couldn’t reach. The kitchen felt cold now, the air heavy with a sense of unease that clung to him like a second skin. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to do something, to get out of the room, but he couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the floor, his mind still reeling from the shock of what he’d seen.
The seconds stretched on, agonizingly slow. His breath came in shallow bursts, his lungs working overtime to keep up with the racing of his heart.
Then, slowly, cautiously, Dick took a step forward, his eyes never leaving the spot where the shadow had been. His bare feet crunched over the broken glass, but he barely registered the sting as a shard dug into the ball of his foot. His focus was elsewhere, on the darkness that still seemed to swirl and shift just out of sight.
"Who's there?" His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse from the tension that gripped him. He hated how small it sounded, how vulnerable.
No answer. Just silence. The kind that suffocates.
Dick’s grip on the edge of the counter tightened, his knuckles white as he braced himself for something—anything—to move, to give him a reason to act. His skin prickled with unease, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He’d felt this before—this creeping, suffocating sensation of being watched. Hunted.
But there was no enemy here. Not that he could see.
His eyes flicked to the hallway again, to the shadows that gathered there, deeper now, thicker. Like the darkness itself had a weight to it, something heavy and tangible. He tried to rationalize it, to tell himself that it was just his imagination. That he was seeing things because he was still half-asleep, his mind playing tricks on him after the nightmare.
But his gut told him something different. His instincts, the ones he had honed from years of patrolling Gotham’s streets, told him that something was wrong. Very wrong.
He didn’t dare move. Not yet. Not until he knew what he was dealing with.
But the darkness didn’t move. It stayed still, oppressive in its silence. The apartment was as quiet as it had been before, the only sound his own unsteady breathing. His eyes scanned the shadows again, searching for any sign of movement. Any flicker of light or change in the air that would betray the presence of something—or someone—lurking just beyond his sight.
Nothing.
His chest tightened with the weight of the silence, the sense of dread wrapping around him like a vice.
He took a deep breath, forcing his body to relax, if only slightly. His mind was still racing, trying to process everything, but he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when every instinct told him that something was coming.
Slowly, carefully, he stepped away from the counter, his eyes never leaving the darkness. The shadows remained still, unmoving, but the oppressive weight of them pressed down on him with each passing second.
"Hello?" Dick's voice cut through the thick, oppressive silence, his throat tight as he swallowed hard. "Is someone there?"
No answer.
The apartment remained eerily still, the shadows thick and heavy, draped like curtains over the edges of his vision. His pulse quickened as he stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, muscles tense, waiting for something to emerge from the darkness. But nothing came. No movement, no sound. Just the relentless silence that pressed against him, suffocating in its stillness.
He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to echo in the quiet room. His eyes darted from corner to corner, searching the dimly lit apartment for any sign of life, any hint that he wasn’t alone. But everything was as it had been moments ago—the apartment empty, bathed in the silvery light of the moon.
Breathe. Just breathe, he reminded himself. His hands were still trembling, the adrenaline rushing through his veins like wildfire. He clenched his fists, willing the tremor to stop, to force some semblance of control back into his body. His mind raced, flashing through every possibility, every logical explanation. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
Exhaling shakily, he looked down at the shattered glass scattered across the kitchen floor. The pieces glittered like ice under the pale moonlight, a broken, fragile mess at his feet. His brow furrowed as he crouched down, his body still tense but willing himself to move, to do something other than stand paralyzed by a fear he couldn’t explain.
He focused on the task, forcing his mind away from the strange feeling that still lingered in the air. Slowly, he began to gather the larger shards, their jagged edges catching the light as he placed them in an empty paper bag he’d found under the sink. The motion was calming in its simplicity, something methodical to ground him in reality.
But as he worked, his thoughts kept drifting back to that shadow, the fleeting figure that had sprinted past him. He couldn’t shake the image from his mind—the way it had moved so quickly, so silently. He had dealt with plenty of criminals, plenty of things that hid in the dark, but this… this had felt different. Something intangible, something that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.
He reached for another shard, his fingers brushing against the sharp edge without realizing it. Pain bloomed in his hand, sharp and immediate.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, wincing as he pulled his hand back. A thin line of red welled up along his palm, blood beading from the shallow cut.
Instinctively, he brought the wound to his mouth, the metallic taste of blood filling his senses. It wasn’t a deep cut, just enough to sting and remind him of his carelessness. He grimaced at the taste of iron, the tang of it sitting heavy on his tongue.
It wasn’t bad. Just a scratch. Nothing compared to the injuries he usually dealt with. But the sudden pain, combined with the disorienting silence of the apartment, left him feeling off-balance, his thoughts swirling in disarray.
Dick tossed the last of the shards into the bag, planning to dispose of them in the morning. He stood, brushing his hands on his sweatpants, his mind already drifting back to the events of the night, trying to piece together what was real and what his mind had conjured in the dark.
And then—
“How do you sleep at night?”
The voice, soft but clear, pierced the silence like a knife.
Dick’s heart stopped.
The air in the room seemed to freeze, every muscle in his body locking into place. The voice hadn’t come from inside his head. It wasn’t a fragment of his nightmare. It was real—spoken aloud, right there in the room with him.
Slowly, cautiously, Dick turned. His eyes scanned the kitchen, the living room beyond it, the hallway leading back to his bedroom. There was no one there. Just the apartment, empty and still, but now charged with a new, menacing energy that made his skin crawl.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the fear-induced sweat gathering at the back of his neck. His pulse was a rapid drumbeat in his ears, his senses suddenly heightened to every tiny detail around him. The shadows seemed deeper now, darker, like they were swallowing up the moonlight, leaving the apartment shrouded in a thick, impenetrable blackness.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His mind was working too fast, trying to reconcile the impossibility of what he had just heard with the reality in front of him.
The voice—it had been so close. So direct. And the words… they had cut deeper than any weapon ever could.
Don’t engage. Stay focused. Assess. Years of training kicked in, pushing aside the fear that clawed at his mind. But it wasn’t enough to silence the doubt creeping up his spine, whispering insidiously in his ear. The voice had felt personal, like it knew him. Like it was speaking to the deepest, most hidden parts of him.
His grip on the edge of the counter tightened, knuckles white. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice steadier than he felt.
Silence. The air felt heavy, thicker than it should be, like it was weighing down on his lungs. He scanned the room again, his body coiled and ready to react to any sudden movement. But there was nothing. Just the same oppressive stillness.
The voice had asked him a question. How do you sleep at night?
He didn’t know how to answer that. Sometimes he didn’t. Not really. Not with the things he’d seen. The things he’d done.
The thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. He had heard voices in the dark before, whispers from his past that would come back to haunt him in moments of weakness. But this felt different. This wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t some echo of guilt from long ago. This was happening now, in real-time.
Dick took a step back, his feet brushing against the broken shards of glass still scattered across the floor. The sound was barely audible, but in the thick silence of the apartment, it felt deafening.
And then he heard it again—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper, like breath against the back of his neck.
"You let me die."
His breath hitched in his throat.
It was the same voice, but this time it was colder, more distant. The words hung in the air, filling the space with a suffocating weight that made it hard to breathe. His skin prickled with the sensation of being watched, of something unseen lurking just beyond his field of vision.
"Who are you?" he demanded, the edge of fear giving way to anger. His voice was louder now, cutting through the silence with a sharpness that surprised even him. "Show yourself."
But there was nothing. Just the same, impenetrable darkness.
Dick’s heart raced, his mind scrambling for answers. Was this some kind of trick? Had someone slipped into his apartment while he was asleep, playing with his head? But that didn’t make sense—he would have heard them, felt them. He was trained to detect even the slightest disturbance.
So what was this?
He took another step back, eyes darting to the hallway that led to his bedroom. The shadows there seemed thicker, almost pulsing with a life of their own. His breathing quickened, the air feeling colder by the second.
The voice had asked how he slept at night. It was a question he had asked himself countless times before. A question he tried not to dwell on, because the answer was always the same.
Badly.
But this? This was something else entirely. This felt like a reckoning. And it wasn’t going to stop until it got what it wanted.
Another whisper, barely more than a breath:
"Robin was meant to give me magic."
The air in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees, and Dick felt a cold sweat break out across his skin. Whatever was happening, it was real. He didn’t know how or why, but something had followed him here, something that wasn’t bound by the same rules as the physical world.
Dick’s head snapped up, his body stiffening as every nerve in his body screamed in alarm. Just a couple of feet away, nestled at the very edge of the shadows, stood a figure. Small. Childlike.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The figure didn’t move, standing perfectly still, half-hidden in the inky blackness of the room. The moonlight barely touched it, but the silhouette was unmistakable. It was a child. A boy.
Dick’s mouth hung open slightly, his brow furrowed in confusion, trying to force his mind to rationalize what he was seeing. His eyes strained to make out the figure’s features, but they were lost in the shadows, obscured by the darkness.
“What did you say?” Dick’s voice came out in a low rasp, barely above a whisper.
The figure remained silent for a moment, standing in that eerie, unnatural stillness. And then its head—or what Dick assumed was its head—tilted to the side in a way that was almost too slow, too deliberate. It was a small movement, but it sent a chill crawling up his spine.
“How do you sleep at night?” the figure asked again, its voice soft, innocent—far too innocent for the words it spoke. The sound of it, so young and childlike, echoed through the room, sending a fresh wave of unease flooding through him. The boy’s tone was flat, emotionless, like it was rehearsed, practiced—something detached from the meaning of the question.
Dick stood up straighter, his heart hammering in his chest, the steady pulse of adrenaline building in his veins. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure, his mind screaming for answers, for something tangible to grasp. This didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice firmer now, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him. He was trying to keep control, trying to wrestle his mind into focus, but the sight of the child—it was wrong, all wrong.
The figure giggled. A high-pitched, soft sound that made the hair on the back of Dick’s neck stand on end. The sound didn’t belong in this room, in this situation. It was too innocent, too joyful, for something that felt so deeply wrong.
Then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—the figure leaned forward into the moonlight.
Dick’s breath caught in his throat as the light revealed the boy’s face, and his heart plummeted into his stomach.
Blood.
The boy’s face was streaked with blood, rivulets of it running down his cheeks, dripping from his chin, staining his torn clothes. His black hair was matted with the stuff, clumped together with blood and debris. But what made Dick’s stomach twist into knots wasn’t just the blood—it was the mask.
A domino mask, torn and barely clinging to the boy’s face, smeared across his pale skin. One of the lenses was shattered, revealing a wide, bright blue eye. A familiar eye.
Dick’s blood ran cold as he stared into the child’s face, the bloodied mask framing a grin that was too wide, too knowing for a boy so young. The smile cut deep into his features, curling up the sides of his face in a way that made Dick’s skin crawl.
The blue eye—the one unbroken, staring back at him—glinted with something unsettling, something far too aware.
“No,” Dick breathed, his heart slamming in his chest. His mind raced, tripping over itself in an attempt to process what was happening. The blood, the mask, the way the boy looked at him—it was all wrong, it was impossible.
The child’s giggle cut through the silence again, and he took a step forward, the blood glistening in the moonlight as it dripped onto the floor.
“How do you sleep at night?” the boy asked again, his voice barely above a whisper, but the question hit Dick like a physical blow.
The floor beneath his feet felt unsteady, like the ground itself was shifting, threatening to give way. His vision blurred, but he blinked hard, forcing himself to focus, to keep his mind tethered to the present. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t.
“What the hell is this?” Dick’s voice was a growl now, raw and strained as his fists clenched at his sides. His eyes locked onto the boy, that horrible, blood-soaked smile never faltering, never wavering. “Who are you?”
The child tilted his head again, that unsettling, too-slow movement making Dick’s stomach churn. “You know who I am,” the boy whispered, his voice soft, teasing.
Another step forward, and Dick instinctively took a step back, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in around him, the shadows pressing down like a heavy weight on his chest.
His mind raced, trying to find an explanation, but there was none. Nothing that made sense. Nothing that explained the way this boy—this thing—stood before him, bloodied and grinning, wearing the face of something long buried.
The boy took another step forward, closer now, close enough that Dick could see the blood-streaked tear in his mask, the way it clung to his face, barely holding together.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the boy whispered, his voice sweet, almost sing-song. He took another step, and Dick’s pulse spiked as he realized the boy was getting closer, too close.
Dick's eyes flicked to the door, to the dark hallway leading out of the kitchen. He needed to move. He needed to get out. But his body refused to listen, his muscles locked in place, frozen by the sheer impossibility of what was standing in front of him.
The boy’s grin widened—impossibly wide now—and his eyes gleamed with something dark, something cruel. “You let me die.”
The words hit Dick like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to tilt, the shadows warping and twisting like a nightmare come to life. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tight, his mind reeling.
“I didn’t—” Dick’s voice faltered, his mind spiraling as the child’s words echoed in the air. You let me die.
“No,” Dick said, shaking his head. “This isn’t real. You’re not real.”
The boy’s laugh was soft, almost sad. “You left me.”
The child took another step, now standing directly in front of him, close enough that Dick could see the blood soaking through his shirt, the dark stains spreading like ink across his chest.
His face—the pale, bloodied skin, the torn mask, the shattered lens—was twisted into something grotesque, a mockery of innocence. But the eyes, the wide, bright blue eyes, held an expression that cut deeper than any wound.
Accusation. Pain.
Dick took a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he tried to form words, tried to pull himself back from the edge of the panic that threatened to swallow him whole.
“This isn’t real,” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper now. His eyes locked onto the boy’s, searching for something, anything that could explain this. But there was only that cold, knowing stare, that blood-soaked grin.
“You left me,” the boy whispered again, his voice soft, haunting. “And now... you’re alone.”
The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows growing deeper, darker, as the boy’s words settled in the air like a curse. Dick’s heart raced, his mind spiraling as he tried to make sense of what was happening, tried to force himself to move, to fight back. But the weight of the boy’s gaze, the blood, the smile—it was too much.
“I didn’t,” Dick whispered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t leave you.”
But the boy only smiled, that same haunting, blood-soaked smile.
“Jason…” Dick whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and sorrow as the name escaped his lips. His chest tightened, his throat constricting, every part of him recoiling from what he knew could not—should not—be real. But there he was, standing in front of him. Jason Todd.
The dead Robin.
Dick slammed back against the kitchen cabinet, the cold wood digging into his spine as he pressed himself against it, as if somehow the solid presence of the cabinet would ground him in reality. As if it would wake him up from this nightmare that was steadily unraveling before his eyes. But there was no waking up from this.
Jason’s eye—that eye—stared up at him with manic intensity, the shattered domino mask hanging loosely over his mutilated face. Blood streamed down Jason’s broken features, dribbling from the corners of his twisted mouth, pooling in his eyes like tears. He grinned, that same eerie, blood-slicked smile, and then he laughed.
The sound was innocent, almost sweet, like the boy he once was. But there was something wrong—deeply wrong about hearing it now. It wasn’t the sound of joy; it was the sound of something mocking, something hollow. A bitterness threaded through every note of the laugh, tainted by the agony that radiated from his very being.
Dick’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, his body stiffening in sheer terror. He wanted to scream, to shout, to run, but all he could do was sit there, paralyzed, his mind trapped in the hellish landscape that had become his apartment.
Jason limped forward, dragging one leg out of the shadows. The movement was jerky, unnatural, like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. His limbs twitched and shuddered as he staggered into the dim light, the full extent of his injuries now visible.
It was exactly as the autopsy had described.
His body was mangled, broken beyond recognition. His arms hung at awkward angles, one shoulder completely dislocated, the bone nearly poking through the skin. His legs were twisted, one dragging behind him, the other barely holding him upright. Burns covered half of his face, angry red welts that contrasted grotesquely with the pale, lifeless flesh. His once-bright Robin suit was torn to shreds, soaked in blood and dirt, the "R" emblem barely visible beneath the mess of gore.
But it was his face—his face that tore at Dick’s soul. Half of it was still recognizable, despite the burns and bruises, the other half was unrecognizable, a mask of torment that could barely hold together. His eye—the one not hidden behind the cracked lens of the mask—was wide, unblinking, and so horribly… alive. It gleamed with something that was once Jason but had long since turned into something else. Something dark. Something hungry.
A sob caught in Dick’s throat as tears sprung to his eyes, blurring his vision. His chest heaved, and he sank to the floor, unable to tear his gaze away from the ghastly sight before him. Jason was dead. He knew Jason was dead. He had been there. He had seen the body, had stared at the lifeless face in the morgue. But now… now that same broken boy was dragging himself toward him, step by agonizing step, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.
“Jay…” Dick’s voice cracked as he whispered the nickname, a plea in his tone. A hope that maybe this was a twisted manifestation of his guilt, a cruel dream brought on by the sleepless nights and constant weight of his failures. But deep down, he knew. This wasn’t a dream. This was worse.
The room was suffocating. The air thick and cold, each breath scraping against his lungs. Dick blinked furiously, tears spilling down his cheeks as Jason dragged himself closer. The sound of his broken limbs hitting the floor with wet thuds echoed in the small kitchen, each movement more torturous than the last.
And then, the noise came.
A sound that set every nerve in Dick’s body on fire with dread.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Jason’s arm—twisted, mangled beyond recognition—dragged along the floor, his fingers clawing at the tiles. And behind it, following the grotesque trail of his movements, was the unmistakable sound of metal on tile. A terrible, scraping noise that cut through the silence like a blade.
The crowbar.
The very same one that had ended Jason’s life.
Dick’s breath hitched as his gaze dropped to the floor, and there it was—scraping along behind Jason’s body, clutched tightly in his dead, blood-streaked hand. The crowbar glinted faintly in the moonlight, its edges smeared with blood and rust, the handle worn and battered from years of violence.
A cold shiver ran down Dick’s spine as the memories surged forward, unbidden and unstoppable. Images of Jason, lying in a pool of blood, broken and beaten, his body limp and lifeless. The crowbar in the Joker’s hand, coming down again and again, each strike a death sentence. And now, here it was again, following the boy in death just as it had in life.
Jason dragged himself closer, his breath wheezing, wet and labored. Every movement was agonizing to watch, the sound of his shattered bones grinding against each other enough to make Dick’s stomach turn. The crowbar scraped along the floor, leaving streaks of blood in its wake, like a twisted reminder of what had happened, of what Dick hadn’t been able to prevent.
And still, that eye—that horrible blue eye—stared up at him with a mixture of accusation and madness. Jason’s smile never faltered, though the corners of his mouth twitched with something almost like pain. Or maybe it was something darker.
“How do you sleep at night, Dick?” Jason’s voice rasped, hoarse and broken. There was no more laughter now. Just the cold, sharp edge of accusation, of hatred.
Dick’s chest constricted, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break through his ribs. His mind screamed at him to move, to do something, but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed, trapped in the nightmare of his own making.
“I didn’t…” Dick’s voice was barely audible, choked with emotion. “I didn’t leave you, Jason. I didn’t know…”
Jason’s mangled body stopped just inches from where Dick sat, frozen against the cabinet. His broken form loomed over him, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. The smell of blood and decay filled the air, suffocating in its intensity.
“You let me die,” Jason whispered, his voice dripping with venom. The words cut deeper than any blade ever could.
Tears streamed down Dick’s face as he shook his head, his hands trembling uncontrollably. “I… I tried, Jay. I tried to save you.” His voice cracked, thick with guilt, with grief. “I should have been there. I should’ve stopped him.”
Jason’s hand, still clutching the bloodstained crowbar, twitched, dragging the weapon closer to Dick’s feet. The scraping sound of metal on tile sent another shudder of terror down Dick’s spine.
The dead Robin’s face twisted into something grotesque, something filled with rage and pain. “You weren’t fast enough,” Jason hissed, his voice distorted, no longer the voice of the boy Dick had once known. It was something darker now. Something cruel.
“You left me,” Jason continued, his voice rising. “You weren’t there. He killed me because you weren’t there!”
Dick’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The words pierced through him like a spear, each one hitting its mark with precision. He had failed Jason. That much had always been true. He had failed to save him, to be there when it mattered most.
“I’m sorry,” Dick whispered, his voice barely audible. The words felt so hollow, so useless, but they were all he had. “I’m so sorry.”
Jason’s face twisted into a sneer, the blood dripping from his mouth as he let out a broken, humorless laugh. “Sorry won’t bring me back.” His grip on the crowbar tightened, the blood-slicked metal gleaming in the dim light. “Sorry won’t undo what he did to me.”
The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows deeper, as Jason’s words hung in the air like a curse. The broken boy leaned closer, his breath cold against Dick’s skin, his voice now barely more than a whisper.
“How do you live with yourself?”
Dick’s heart stopped, the weight of the question crushing him, suffocating him. How did he live with himself? How had he carried the guilt, the grief, the shame of Jason’s death all these years? How had he continued to wear the suit, to fight in the shadows, knowing that he had failed the boy who had once been like a brother to him?
Jason leaned in closer, his shattered face mere inches from Dick’s. “You should’ve died instead of me.”
The words were a knife to the heart.
Dick’s entire body trembled as the truth of Jason’s accusation sank in. The guilt that had been festering inside him for so long, the guilt he had tried to bury, was now laid bare. He had always known it, deep down. He had always felt that he didn’t deserve to live, not when Jason had died such a brutal, senseless death.
The room seemed to spin, the edges of Dick’s vision blurring as the distorted figure of Jason loomed over him. His dead brother, his bloodied brother, with that manic grin plastered across his mangled face.
“You never answered my question, Dickiebird,” Jason purred, his voice sweet, mocking, twisted with a cruel edge. He sang the words with a sickening lilt, dragging them out like a twisted lullaby, the notes echoing in the stillness of the moonlit kitchen.
Dick’s chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow, erratic bursts as his world tilted, reality bending around him like a funhouse mirror. Jason stood just in front of him now, blood-soaked, grinning, using the crowbar as a crutch to support his shattered body. His gaze—one eye wide, unblinking—was locked on Dick’s, unrelenting.
The crowbar gleamed in the dim light as Jason leaned forward, his face just inches from Dick’s, and whispered again. “How do you sleep at night?” His voice echoed hauntingly, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, doubling, tripling, distorting until it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once. How do you sleep at night? The question circled, twisted, filled the room, filling Dick’s mind, worming its way into every corner of his thoughts.
Dick’s mouth felt dry, as though it had been stuffed with cotton. He tried to swallow, tried to speak, but nothing came. His heart hammered in his chest, the rapid beat echoing in his ears, drowning out everything else except for Jason’s mocking voice. He tried to tear his gaze away from Jason’s face, tried to look anywhere else, but those dead, bloodshot eyes held him captive.
Jason’s grin widened as he watched Dick’s fear, feeding off it, relishing it. Slowly, he lifted the crowbar, the sound of metal scraping against the floor making Dick flinch involuntarily. Jason twirled the bloodied weapon in his battered, trembling hand, the gesture unnervingly smooth despite his mangled body. The metal caught the light, flickering as it spun in Jason’s grasp, a macabre dance that seemed far too practiced.
Tap.
The crowbar hit the tile floor with a soft tap, and Dick flinched again, his whole body recoiling against the sound.
Tap.
Jason grinned, his smile stretching impossibly wide, his teeth stained red. “How do you sleep at night, knowing you let me die?” Jason’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade, stabbing into Dick’s soul. The words lingered in the air, taunting, accusatory, like a judge passing sentence. Jason’s gaze was locked on Dick’s, unwavering, and behind that grin was something dark, something cold.
Dick’s chest heaved as he choked on a sob, the guilt crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He pressed himself back against the cabinet as far as he could, his trembling hands braced against the cold wood, as though it could somehow protect him from the horror unfolding before him. Tears blurred his vision, but Jason’s face remained clear—too clear—etched into his mind like a nightmare he couldn’t escape.
“I didn’t…” Dick’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know you were—” But the words died in his throat, strangled by the crushing weight of guilt and fear.
Jason tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, close enough that Dick could feel the cold, unnatural chill radiating from him. “Liar,” Jason hissed, his voice low, venomous. “You knew. You knew I was out there. You didn’t come for me.” His lips twisted into a sneer, the mocking grin turning into something far more menacing.
The crowbar hovered in the air between them, trembling slightly in Jason’s hand as he lowered it just enough that it brushed against Dick’s knee. The cold metal sent a jolt through Dick’s body, and he bit back another sob, his breath hitching in his throat. He couldn’t look at Jason—couldn’t bear to see the broken, mangled face of the boy he’d failed. The boy he couldn’t save.
Jason leaned in even closer, his breath cold against Dick’s skin, his voice barely a whisper now. “How do you live with yourself?” His breath smelled of blood and decay, the stench overwhelming, suffocating. “How do you live with knowing you let me die?”
“Stop,” Dick whispered, his voice shaking, raw. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away, unable to face the horror in front of him. “Please, Jason. Just… just stop.”
But Jason didn’t stop. He leaned in closer still, his breath cold and wet against Dick’s ear, his voice dripping with malice. “You left me. You let him kill me.” The words came out slow, deliberate, each syllable filled with accusation, with rage.
The room seemed to shift, the walls closing in, warping and twisting around Dick as Jason’s presence grew more oppressive, more suffocating. The moonlight filtering through the windows flickered, like a dying flame, casting grotesque shadows that danced and twisted along the floor, their shapes unrecognizable. The air was thick, heavy, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t escape.
“How do you sleep at night?” Jason sang the words again, spinning the crowbar once more before letting it fall to the floor with a dull, sickening thud. The sound reverberated through Dick’s skull, rattling his already fragile sense of reality.
The room felt too small. Too dark. The shadows writhed and pulsed, stretching like fingers reaching for him, pulling him deeper into the nightmare.
Dick squeezed his eyes shut tighter, pressing his palms to his ears as if that would somehow block out the words, the questions that clawed at his mind. He was drowning in them, sinking beneath the weight of his guilt, his fear. Jason was right there—right there in front of him, inches away—and yet he felt a thousand miles away, lost in the fog of his own mind.
“You didn’t save me,” Jason whispered, his voice hollow now, filled with something that sounded almost like heartbreak beneath the rage. “You let me die, Dick. You left me.”
Dick’s breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that it drowned out everything else—the soft sound of Jason’s voice, the scrape of the crowbar on the floor, the creaking of the shadows as they shifted and twisted around him. All he could hear was the hammering of his own heart and the crushing weight of the truth pressing down on him.
He had failed Jason.
He had left him to die.
“I’m sorry,” Dick choked out, his voice breaking. The tears streamed down his face now, hot and unrelenting, as he pressed himself harder against the cabinet, as though he could somehow sink into it, disappear into the wood, escape from the crushing guilt that had consumed him. “I’m so sorry, Jason.”
But Jason didn’t stop. He didn’t move. He stayed there, hovering just above him, his dead, accusing eyes locked onto Dick’s, his broken face twisted into that sickening grin.
“You’re always sorry,” Jason mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, with bitterness. “Sorry won’t bring me back.” He leaned in so close now that his cold breath ghosted across Dick’s cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. “Sorry won’t fix what you did.”
Dick turned his head away again, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “Please,” he whispered, his voice a broken plea. “Please, just stop.”
Jason tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he watched Dick’s breakdown with a cruel, twisted satisfaction. “You don’t get to plead, Dickiebird,” he sneered, his voice cutting like a knife. “You’re not the victim here. I am.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer, and Dick’s entire body seemed to crumple under the weight of them. He had nothing left. No defenses, no excuses. Jason was right. He was always right.
He had let him die.
Jason stood there for what felt like an eternity, his dead, bloodied body casting a long shadow over Dick as he trembled on the floor, broken and defeated.
Jason’s facade slipped, the twisted grin dropping into something far more sinister as his eyes burned with fury. His movements, jittery and unnatural, seemed to flicker in the darkness like a broken film reel, stuttering and fading in and out of view. His form was barely there, but Dick couldn’t tear his gaze away from him, couldn’t stop his heart from thundering in his chest as Jason took a step back into the shadows, the haunting whistle of a forgotten melody slipping from his bloodied lips.
Dick was bordering on a panic attack now, his breathing sharp and ragged, every muscle in his body tensed like a spring about to snap. His back pressed so hard against the cabinet that the wood creaked beneath the pressure, his eyes wide and unblinking, glued to the figure before him.
Jason smiled, a cruel, knowing smile that didn’t reach his eyes—eyes that were empty and dead, yet somehow filled with a burning accusation that made Dick’s stomach churn. Blood stained his teeth, dripping slowly down his chin as his grin stretched impossibly wide, a grotesque mockery of the boy he had once known. The Jason he remembered had been full of life, full of fire. But this… this thing before him? It was a hollow shell, twisted and broken.
And then Jason spoke again, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
“You know what the worst part was?” Jason’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, but it carried through the room, reverberating off the walls. “It wasn’t the pain, or the fear… It wasn’t even knowing I was going to die.”
Dick shook his head, swallowing hard as his throat tightened painfully. “Stop,” he whispered, his voice trembling, barely audible. “This isn’t real. You’re not—this isn’t—”
But Jason kept going, his eyes gleaming with something dark, something cruel. He took another step forward, leaning heavily on his injured legs, his body sagging as though it could barely hold itself up. “The worst part, Dickiebird?” he said, his voice dropping lower, dripping with venom. “It was screaming for you. Over and over. Screaming for my big brother to come save me. But you never came.”
Dick’s heart seized in his chest, his breath catching painfully in his throat. He shook his head again, more violently this time, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the cabinet behind him. “That’s not true,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know, Jason, I—”
Jason’s grin widened as he saw the panic rising in Dick’s eyes, his voice dropping to a whisper, haunting and cold. “I begged for you. I cried your name until my throat was raw. But you never came.” His voice trembled now, imitating the fear and pain of that moment, as if he were reliving it in front of Dick’s eyes. “You weren’t there.”
“I would’ve come, I would’ve—” Dick’s words tumbled out, desperate, pleading, but they sounded hollow, meaningless even to his own ears. He knew Jason was right. He hadn’t been there. He had failed him, and now there was no taking that back.
Jason took another step forward, his leg dragging limply behind him, the sound of bone scraping against the floor making Dick flinch. “You know what the Joker did to me, don’t you?” Jason asked, his tone conversational, almost casual, but his eyes blazed with anger, with hatred. “He took his time. Made sure I felt every single hit, every bone that snapped, every inch of skin that burned.”
Dick’s stomach churned as Jason spoke, bile rising in his throat. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, trying to block out the images that flashed in his mind—the images of Jason’s broken, bloodied body, the gruesome details of the autopsy report that he had forced himself to read, trying to understand the pain his little brother had endured. But hearing it now, from Jason’s own mouth, was unbearable.
“Stop it,” Dick begged, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn’t listen to this, couldn’t bear the weight of the truth. “Please, Jason, stop.”
But Jason didn’t stop. He leaned in closer, his breath cold against Dick’s face, the stench of blood and death clinging to him like a shroud. “He laughed the whole time, you know. Every hit, every scream—I could hear him laughing, like it was all just a game to him.” Jason’s voice cracked with anger, with bitterness, his hands tightening on the crowbar as he spoke. “And all I could think about was you. My big brother. I kept thinking you were going to come bursting through the door any second… that you’d come save me like you always did.”
Dick’s vision blurred with tears, his whole body trembling. He wanted to scream, to shout at Jason to stop, to beg for forgiveness, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was shake his head, helpless and broken, his chest heaving as sobs clawed their way up his throat.
Jason’s voice grew louder, more intense, filled with a seething rage that made the air around them crackle with tension. “But you didn’t come, Dick. You left me there. You let him kill me.”
“No,” Dick whimpered, his voice shaking, barely audible. He squeezed his eyes shut, clamping his hands over his ears as if that could block out the sound of Jason’s voice, the terrible, accusing words that stabbed into his heart like knives. “Please… just stop…”
But Jason’s voice only grew louder, echoing through the room, bouncing off the walls, filling every corner of Dick’s mind until it was all he could hear. “I needed you, Dick. I wanted my big brother to save me. But you weren’t there!”
“Shut up!” Dick screamed, his voice raw, desperate. He pressed his hands harder against his ears, shaking his head violently, trying to block it out, trying to make it stop. “This isn’t real! You’re not real!”
But Jason’s voice continued to echo, louder and louder, filling every inch of the room, until it was all Dick could hear, all he could think about. “You let me die, Dick! You didn’t save me!”
“Stop it!” Dick screamed again, his voice cracking, tears streaming down his face as he pressed himself harder against the cabinet, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “Please, Jason! Just stop!”
Until-
Dick blinked, the wetness of his tears still clinging to his lashes, his chest heaving with the remains of his panicked breaths. He opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, as though afraid of what he might see.
Nothing.
No blood smeared across the floor. No shattered glass reflecting the moonlight. No twisted, broken body of his dead brother dragging itself across the floor toward him. It was just his apartment—silent, still, and suffocatingly normal.
Dick didn’t move for a long moment. His body remained curled on the cold floor, his back pressed against the cabinet. His limbs felt like lead, heavy and useless, and his mind buzzed with the remnants of the nightmare that had felt so real only moments ago. His heart was still racing, his chest tight as he struggled to breathe through the lingering terror.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and slowly uncurled from his fetal position, every movement deliberate and cautious, as though any sudden shift might shatter the fragile calm of the room and bring the nightmare rushing back.
His fingers brushed against the cabinet behind him, and he gripped it tightly, the wood cool and solid beneath his palm. It took all his strength to haul himself to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him, threatening to give out at any moment. His muscles screamed in protest, tense and coiled from the terror that had gripped him only moments before.
He swayed on his feet, blinking rapidly as his vision swam. He raised a trembling hand to his face, swiping at the tears that had dried on his cheeks. His breathing was still shallow, but he began to count silently in his head.
One… two… three…
The numbers steadied him, grounding him in the present, reminding him that he was here, in his apartment, alone.
Four… five… six…
His hands were sweaty, and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton, dry and unpleasant. He wiped his palms on his sweatpants, willing the tremors in his body to subside as he counted.
Seven… eight… nine… ten…
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to force his heart to slow its frantic pace. He had to focus. He had to remind himself that Jason wasn’t here. That Jason couldn’t be here.
Finally, his breathing evened out, and the tightness in his chest loosened. Dick straightened his back, squaring his shoulders, his fingers still clutching the edge of the cabinet like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
When he felt steady enough, he forced himself to look around the room, his eyes darting nervously across the space, searching for any sign of the ghost that had haunted him moments before. But there was nothing. Just the dim glow of moonlight spilling through the window, casting soft shadows across the floor.
He exhaled shakily, relieved.
It’s over. It was just a nightmare, he told himself, his voice shaky and weak in his own mind. It wasn’t real.
But just as he was about to turn away, a voice—soft, cruel, and far too close—sliced through the silence like a knife.
“Boo.”
Dick’s heart seized in his chest, and his blood ran cold.
Jason’s face was inches away from his own, a manic grin stretched across his lips, his blue eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of amusement. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the moonlight, and his hair was matted with dried blood and dirt. He looked like something out of a horror movie, his once vibrant features now hollowed out, drained of life, but still full of malice-
Dick bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribcage like a trapped bird, and his breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. The darkness of his room pressed down on him, thick and suffocating, his mind still tangled in the web of whatever nightmare had just gripped him.
He blinked, hard, willing his racing mind to catch up with reality. He was in his bed, in his apartment. Alone. The familiar surroundings slowly came into focus—the faint outline of his furniture in the moonlight filtering through the curtains, the muted hum of the city beyond his window, the subtle creak of the building settling around him.
It was just a dream.
But even as that realization took hold, the panic lingered, heavy in his chest, as though it had taken root deep inside him. The phantom echoes of the nightmare still clung to him like a second skin, the images sharp and vivid in his mind. He could still feel the weight of Jason’s presence in the room, could still hear his voice—mocking, accusing, full of a venom that twisted in Dick’s gut.
You let me die, Dickiebird.
His throat tightened as the words replayed over and over, a relentless loop of guilt and sorrow. He exhaled shakily, dragging a hand down his face, feeling the cold sweat on his skin, the way his fingers trembled.
He flopped back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a moment. His limbs felt heavy, his muscles tense, and he tried to focus on the feeling of the mattress beneath him, the soft texture of the sheets, the weight of his body pressing into the bed. It was grounding, a small reminder that he was here, that the nightmare hadn’t followed him into the waking world.
But it didn’t help as much as he wanted it to.
The panic still clung to him, his anxiety spiking as he lay there in the dark, his mind racing, unable to settle. The apartment felt too still, too quiet, and yet every sound—the distant hum of traffic, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance—seemed amplified, as though the world was pressing in on him from all sides.
He rolled onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down. His hand instinctively reached out, grasping at the pillow next to him as if he could find some kind of comfort in the fabric. But his fingers brushed against something else—a cold, hard edge.
His eyes fluttered open, and he looked to see what his hand had landed on.
It was a framed photograph. He hadn’t even realized it had been sitting there, just within reach on the nightstand. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over him, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, as though in a daze, Dick reached forward, lifting the photo from its place. His fingers brushed over the cool glass, tracing the edges of the frame, and then he brought it closer, holding it in front of him so he could see it clearly in the dim light.
It was a photo of him and Jason.
The memory of when it was taken came back to him in an instant. Jason was younger in the picture—just a kid, barely Robin for a year at that point. Dick was a teenager, grinning at the camera, his arm slung around Jason’s neck in a playful headlock. Jason, in typical fashion, was glaring at him, his brow furrowed, his lips pulled into a scowl, but even then, there was a glint of humor in his eyes. It was one of those moments where Jason had pretended to hate the affection, but secretly reveled in the attention. Dick knew that look all too well.
The sight of it—the way Jason looked at him, the way Dick had been so carefree in that moment—hit him like a punch to the gut.
He had been so happy then. So was Jason, even if he tried not to show it. They had been brothers. They had been family.
And now…
Dick’s throat tightened, and his grip on the frame trembled. His vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears he didn’t bother holding back. He squeezed them shut, but it was too late—his chest heaved with silent sobs, his shoulders shaking as he pressed the photograph to his chest, clutching it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the present.
“I’m so sorry, Little Wing,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The words barely made it past his lips, choked and strangled by the sobs that wracked his body. His heart felt like it was breaking all over again, the weight of his guilt and sorrow pressing down on him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything except how much he had failed Jason. How he hadn’t been there when it mattered. How he hadn’t saved him.
“I should have been there,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath, but they felt like a confession, a raw admission of the guilt that had been gnawing at him for months. “I should have…”
The photo pressed against his chest felt like a weight—a reminder of everything he had lost. He could still see Jason’s face, even with his eyes closed, could still hear his laugh, his voice, that sharp-edged humor that had been Jason’s trademark.
The sobs came harder now, more forceful, and Dick didn’t try to stop them. There was no point. The grief, the guilt—it was too much to hold back. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, and moments like this, in the dark, alone, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, it rose up, overwhelming him.
He hugged the photograph tighter, curling into himself as if he could somehow protect himself from the pain. But there was no escaping it. Not now. Not ever. Not when Jason’s absence haunted him every single day.
The memory of the nightmare flashed in his mind again—Jason’s broken body, his voice full of accusation and anger.
You let me die, Dickiebird.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to,” Dick choked out, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t…”
He knew it wasn’t rational. He knew, deep down, that it hadn’t been his fault—that Jason had made his own choices, that Bruce had made his own choices, that it had been the Joker who had done this to him. But none of that mattered in moments like this. None of the logic, none of the justifications, none of the reasons.
All that mattered was that Jason was gone. And he hadn’t been able to stop it.
The tears kept coming, and Dick didn’t stop them. He let himself cry, let the grief wash over him, let the guilt twist in his gut like a knife. He deserved it. He deserved every bit of the pain he felt because he had failed Jason. He had let him down.
And now, he had to live with that. Every day. Every single day.
For a long time, Dick just lay there, curled up in his bed, clutching the photograph of him and Jason like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. The tears eventually slowed, the sobs quieting into soft, broken breaths, but the pain didn’t go away. It never really did.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dick wiped at his face, his fingers shaking as they brushed away the wetness of his tears. His throat was tight, his head aching, and his body felt drained, exhausted from the emotional toll of it all.
He held the photograph out in front of him again, looking down at Jason’s face—so young, so full of life—and something in his chest twisted painfully.
“I miss you,” he whispered, his voice raw. “God, I miss you, Little Wing.”
The words hung in the air, unanswered, as they always were.