Chloe stared at me, her mouth slightly agape, a half-eaten bread roll still clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
"You were gone for twenty minutes," she said slowly, like she was trying to solve a particularly complex math problem. "There was gunfire. Explosions. People were screaming. And you... you went to the bathroom."
I gave her my most charming, apologetic smile while internally calculating exactly how long it would take to extricate myself from this situation and get home to start my new life properly. "Call of nature waits for no man," I said with a helpless shrug. "Though I'll admit, the timing was less than ideal."
She continued staring at me like I'd grown a second head. Which, from her perspective, I probably had. The old Dick Grayson would have been protective, concerned, asking if she was hurt. The old Dick Grayson would have wrapped her in his arms and whispered reassurances about how he'd never let anything happen to her.
The old Dick Grayson hadn't just spent twenty minutes living out every superhero fantasy he'd ever had.
"Sir? Ma'am?" A tired-looking police officer appeared at our table, notepad in hand. His uniform was rumpled, his expression suggesting this was just another Friday night in Blüdhaven. "I need to get a statement about what you witnessed."
Perfect. This would give me time to figure out exactly how to end this relationship without seeming like a complete sociopath.
"Of course, Officer..." I glanced at his name tag, "Martinez. Happy to help."
The next ten minutes were a masterclass in selective truth-telling. Yes, we'd been having dinner when the explosion occurred. Yes, we'd taken cover under our table as instructed. No, we hadn't gotten a clear look at the perpetrators. Yes, everything had happened very quickly. No, neither of us had been injured.
All perfectly true, technically speaking. I just left out the part where I'd spent most of that time systematically dismantling a team of themed criminals while wearing a costume that probably cost more than most people's cars.
God, I love being technically honest. It's like lying, but with legal immunity.
"The Nightwing guy showed up," Officer Martinez added, making a note in his pad. "First time anyone's gotten a good look at him in action. Witnesses say he took down all four of them single-handed."
"Impressive," I said, managing to keep my voice level while internally doing victory laps. "Any idea who he is?"
"Above my pay grade," Martinez replied with a grunt. "But whoever he is, he's good. Real good. These Royal Flush idiots have been pulling jobs all up and down the coast for months. Nobody's even come close to catching them before tonight."
First case, perfect success rate. I'm basically the Batman of Blüdhaven already. Eat your heart out, Bruce.
After Martinez moved on to the next table, Chloe turned to me with an expression that was equal parts confused and concerned. "Dick, can we please get out of here? I just... I need to go somewhere safe. Somewhere normal. Maybe we could go back to your place and watch a movie or something?"
And there it was. The perfect opening.
I looked at her with what I hoped was profound, soul-searching seriousness. The kind of expression that suggested I was grappling with deep, cosmic truths rather than trying to figure out how to dump her without looking like a complete ass.
"Chloe," I said, reaching across the table to take her hand. "This event... it's been a wake-up call. A sign from the universe."
She blinked. "A sign?"
"I can no longer walk the path of an ordinary man," I continued, channeling every overwrought dramatic speech I'd ever seen in a movie. "I have to follow my destiny, a cosmic calling that I can't explain but must obey. I must walk this path alone."
The silence that followed was profound. Somewhere across the restaurant, a piece of broken glass tinkled to the floor.
"Are you..." she started, then stopped. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"I'm freeing you," I said solemnly, "from the burden of a man who has been chosen by forces beyond our understanding."
This is possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever said. But it's also kind of working? She looks more confused than heartbroken, which is exactly what I was going for.
"Dick, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I can't explain it," I said, standing and pulling out my wallet. "But I know, with absolute certainty, that my path leads somewhere you can't follow. Tonight was a warning, Chloe. A glimpse of the dangerous world that's calling to me."
I dropped enough cash on the table to cover our dinner, the broken wine glass, and probably the waiter's rent for the month. "I'll make sure you get home safely. That's the least I can do."
Twenty minutes later, I was standing on the sidewalk outside The Cormorant, watching Chloe's taxi disappear into the Blüdhaven traffic. She'd spent the entire ride to the taxi trying to make sense of what had just happened, asking if I was having some kind of breakdown, if this was about work stress, if there was someone else.
I'd stuck to my cosmic destiny script, even going so far as to place a gentle hand on her cheek and tell her that someday, when she read about the great deeds of Richard Grayson, she'd understand.
Poor girl. She's probably going to spend the next week telling her friends that I had a psychotic break triggered by witnessing a supervillain attack. Which is, technically, not entirely inaccurate.
But now she was gone, and I was free.
I hailed my own taxi, gave the driver the address to Dick Grayson's penthouse, and settled back into the leather seats to watch my new city scroll past the windows.
Blüdhaven at night was a study in contrasts. The downtown area where we'd been dining was all gleaming corporate towers and upscale restaurants, but even here you could see the edges of the rougher neighborhoods bleeding through. Neon signs for pawn shops and check-cashing places. Groups of teenagers clustered around convenience stores. The occasional police car cruising slowly through intersections with their windows up and their doors locked.
It was grittier than Gotham, somehow. Less dramatically noir, more practically dangerous. The kind of city where people kept their heads down and minded their own business because getting involved usually meant getting hurt.
Perfect for a superhero who wanted to make a real difference. Perfect for building a reputation without having to compete with Batman's shadow.
This is my city now. My territory. My chance to be the kind of hero I always wanted to see.
The taxi pulled up outside a gleaming residential tower that rose into the night sky like a glass and steel monument to wealth and success. The lobby was all marble and brass, with security guards who nodded respectfully as I walked past. The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like ascending to Mount Olympus.
And then the doors opened, and I stepped into paradise.
Holy. Shit.
The first thing that hit me was the sheer scale of it. The apartment was enormous – a sprawling open-plan space that seemed to stretch on forever. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around two walls, offering a panoramic view of Blüdhaven that made the entire city look like a sparkling circuit board spread out below.
My God. I've seen smaller hotel lobbies. The sheer, unadulterated wealth. I could do cartwheels in here for an hour and not hit a single piece of artisan, minimalist furniture. This isn't a home; it's a victory screen.
The living room was a masterpiece of modern design. Low-profile furniture in blacks and grays, arranged around a real fireplace. A state-of-the-art entertainment system dominated one wall, with speakers positioned so precisely that I could probably hear individual raindrops in a thunderstorm soundtrack.
The kitchen was something out of a cooking show – all gleaming stainless steel and granite countertops, with appliances that looked like they'd been designed by NASA. I ran my hands over the marble island, giggling slightly at the smooth coolness under my fingertips.
I have no idea how to use any of this. I could probably burn water in a kitchen this advanced. But my God, it's beautiful.
I wandered through the space like a kid in the world's most expensive toy store. The walk-in closet was larger than my old apartment, filled with designer suits and casual wear that fit my new body perfectly. Hidden panels revealed compartments for various pieces of Nightwing gear – backup suits, extra weapons, equipment I couldn't even identify yet.
The bedroom was dominated by a bed that was less a piece of furniture and more a small continent. The windows here faced east, which meant I'd wake up to sunshine streaming across the city every morning. Like living inside a meditation app designed by billionaires.
But it was the framed photo on the nightstand that made me pause.
A younger Dick Grayson – maybe sixteen or seventeen – standing between Bruce Wayne and an elderly man who could only be Alfred Pennyworth. They were at some kind of carnival or circus, all three of them smiling genuine, unguarded smiles. Dick's parents' circus, maybe. Or just a moment of happiness in what I knew had been a childhood marked by tragedy and transformation.
For the first time since I'd awakened in this body, I felt a genuine pang of something that might have been guilt. I was living this man's life, sleeping in his bed, wearing his clothes. I was about to use his reputation and resources to pursue my own agenda.
But then I looked around at the penthouse again, at the view and the luxury and the sheer endless potential of it all, and the guilt faded into something more like gratitude.
I'm not going to waste this. I'm going to be the hero this life deserves. I'm going to protect this city, save these people, and maybe – just maybe – win the heart of the most incredible woman in the multiverse.
Thank you, Dick Grayson. I'll try to make you proud.
I found the laptop in what was obviously a home office – another space that was larger than my old apartment, with a desk that could have doubled as a landing strip. The computer was, predictably, a masterpiece of Wayne-tech engineering. It booted up faster than I could blink, connected to the internet at speeds that would make Starlink jealous, and had security protocols that probably classified it as a controlled substance in several countries.
Time for the great information dive.
My first search was simple: "Superman."
The results that flooded back confirmed everything I'd hoped. News articles from the past few months, all with headlines like "SUPERMAN SAVES METROPOLIS FROM ALIEN" and "WHO IS THE MAN OF STEEL?" The tone was optimistic, hopeful, with just enough complacency to suggest the world was already getting used to the idea of superheroes.
And there, in a high-definition photograph that made my breath catch, was David Corenswet in the red and blue. It was definitely him – the same face I'd seen in the theatre, but somehow more real, more heroic. This wasn't a movie still; this was actual news footage of Superman stopping a falling plane.
The Gunnverse. It's real. It's actually real. I'm actually truly definitely living inside the James Gunn DC Universe.
My second search was "Batman."
The results were exactly what I'd expected: grainy photographs, shaky cell phone videos, and articles that treated him more like a urban legend than a confirmed superhero. Headlines like "IS THE BAT-MAN REAL?" and "GOTHAM'S DARK GUARDIAN: FACT OR FICTION?" The general consensus seemed to be that something was definitely happening in Gotham, but nobody could prove exactly what.
Perfect. Bruce is still operating in the shadows, which means the wider world isn't ready for a complete superhero revolution yet. That gives me room to work.
But now came the real search. The one that mattered.
I opened a private browser, engaged every security protocol the laptop had, and typed in two words: "Hawkgirl."
The internet practically exploded.
Article after article flooded my screen. "JUSTICE GANG STOPS ROGUE METAHUMAN IN WASHINGTON D.C." "THE WINGED WARRIOR: WHO IS HAWKGIRL?" "INSIDE THE GOVERNMENT'S SUPER-TEAM."
I clicked through them with the manic energy of a treasure hunter who'd just found the motherlode. The Justice Gang was a small, officially sanctioned team working directly with the government. Guy Gardner as Green Lantern – already perfectly cast with Nathan Fillion's face grinning from multiple action shots. Edi Gathegi's brilliant Mr. Terrific, whose tech-genius reputation was apparently well-established. And then...
There she is.
The first clear photograph of Hawkgirl in action nearly made me fall out of my chair. She was mid-flight, wings spread wide, wielding a mace that seemed to be made of pure grit. Her costume was a perfect blend of ancient Egyptian mysticism and modern tactical gear. Her posture radiated confidence, power, and just enough danger to suggest that crossing her would be the last mistake you ever made.
But it was her face that stopped my heart.
Even partially hidden behind her mask, even caught in the middle of combat, there was no mistaking those features. The sharp cheekbones, the determined set of her jaw, the way she carried herself like she owned the sky.
Isabela Merced. It was actually, genuinely, impossibly Isabela Merced.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I clicked through to more photos. Hawkgirl at a Justice Gang press conference, standing slightly apart from her teammates with an expression that suggested she was barely tolerating the whole media circus. Hawkgirl in flight over the Washington Monument, silhouetted against a sunset that made her look like a warrior goddess from every mythology ever written.
And then – jackpot – I found her public social media profiles.
Dr. Kendra Saunders, archaeologist and "part-time government consultant." Her Instagram was a carefully curated mix of professional excavation photos, museum visits, and just enough personal content to suggest a woman who was confident, intelligent, and absolutely gorgeous.
That smirk. That damned smirk. It's not arrogant. It's a promise. A promise of a universe of trouble and I want in. I want to be the reason for that smirk.
I spent the next hour falling down the deepest research rabbit hole of my life. I found articles about her academic work, her theories about ancient Egyptian aviation technology, her controversial papers about the historical basis for winged deities. I found candid photos from archaeological conferences where she looked devastating in business casual. I found action shots where she looked like she could take on an army single-handed.
Every image, every article, every glimpse into her life just confirmed what I already knew: this was the woman I was going to marry.
Game on, universe. Game on.
I found the highest resolution photo I could – a professional headshot from her university faculty page where she was wearing a slight smile that suggested she knew secrets that could change the world – and set it as my desktop background.
Then I stood up, looked at my reflection in the darkened window, and made a solemn vow to my empty penthouse.
"Kendra Saunders," I said aloud, feeling slightly ridiculous but absolutely determined. "I don't care if you're an ancient Egyptian princess. I don't care if you can fly. I don't care if you work for the government and could probably have me disappeared with a phone call. I'm going to win your heart, and I'm going to do it with such style and panache that future generations will write epic poems about our romance."
The city lights twinkled below me like stars, and for a moment I felt like I was standing on top of the world.
Step one: become rich enough to move in the same social circles as a government-sponsored superhero archaeologist. Step two: orchestrate a series of increasingly elaborate 'accidental' meetings. Step three: deploy every ounce of Dick Grayson's natural charm until she can't help but fall for me. Step four: wedding of the century.
How hard could it be?
I turned back to the laptop, ready to start drafting what was probably going to be the most detailed romantic battle plan in human history.
Just as I was about to start drafting a 72-point plan to orchestrate our 'accidental' first meeting, a polite, distinctly British cough echoed from the penthouse entryway behind me.
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Author's note:
Who could this person possibly be!? With a British cough too…