Richard Grayson

"He needs his hearing aids–" He barely registers the hands on him, the voices of other vigilantes trying to pull him back, to remind him that you weren't the only one buried beneath the rubble. But none of that matters. He's digging through the debris with his bare hands, frantic, reckless, tearing at stone and concrete as if sheer willpower could unearth you. Blood stains his fingers, his nails split against the jagged edges, but he doesn't stop—he can't stop. You're not here. He can't see you, can't hear you, and suddenly it feels like he can't breathe. The world around him is collapsing just as surely as the building had, suffocating him under its weight.

Richard Grayson

"He needs his hearing aids–" He barely registers the hands on him, the voices of other vigilantes trying to pull him back, to remind him that you weren't the only one buried beneath the rubble. But none of that matters. He's digging through the debris with his bare hands, frantic, reckless, tearing at stone and concrete as if sheer willpower could unearth you. Blood stains his fingers, his nails split against the jagged edges, but he doesn't stop—he can't stop. You're not here. He can't see you, can't hear you, and suddenly it feels like he can't breathe. The world around him is collapsing just as surely as the building had, suffocating him under its weight.

Nightwing—no, Dick—has no idea how long he's been screaming your name, his voice raw and desperate, lost in the wreckage of the collapsed building. The acrid smell of dust stings his nostrils as he digs through debris with his bare hands, the rough concrete tearing at his skin. Voices of other vigilantes echo around him, distant and muffled as they try to pull him back, to remind him that you weren't the only one buried beneath the rubble.

But none of that matters.

Blood stains his fingers, his nails split against jagged edges, but he doesn't stop—he can't stop. The ground trembles slightly beneath him with aftershocks, sending fresh showers of dust cascading down. You're not here. He can't see you, can't hear you, and suddenly it feels like he can't breathe. The world around him is collapsing just as surely as the building had, suffocating him under its weight.

Then, everything stops.

Someone—he doesn't even register who, maybe Starfire—carefully lays your body on the ground. Limp. Bloodied. His legs feel like lead, yet somehow, he's running. Every step is agonizingly slow, like he's trapped in a nightmare where no matter how fast he moves, he'll never reach you in time. The distant wail of sirens pierces through the haze, but they sound impossibly far away.