The night was quiet in the small apartment, save for the soft hum of a city that never truly slept. Rain tapped gently on the windowpane, its rhythm like a lullaby for the restless. Inside a modest bedroom, a boy no older than nine lay beneath a thin blanket, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. His hands rested behind his head, his mind racing far too fast to drift into dreams.
The door creaked open, casting a sliver of warm hallway light across the room.
"Richard," came the gentle voice of a woman, "why aren't you asleep?"
Richard turned his head, meeting the gaze of his mother with brown hair cascading around her face, blue eyes that always saw through him, into him. She stepped into the room barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater and holding a cup of tea.
"I can't sleep," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can you read me a story?"
Mary Grayson let out a soft laugh and crossed the room. "Of course, honey."
She sat on the edge of the bed, tucking her legs under her, and ran a hand through his curls.
"Mmm… how about this one." She cleared her throat and began, her voice smoothing into a rhythm like an old melody.
"Long ago, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a great bird of the night. He had feathers black as coal, eyes that saw through lies, and wings that moved without a sound. They called him the Nightwing."
Richard's eyes widened, his lips parting just a little.
"By day, the kingdom was ruled by greedy lords and cruel men. They took from the poor and crushed anyone who dared to dream. But when the sun went down… the Nightwing soared. He didn't have an army. He didn't have riches. He had something stronger his heart, his courage, and the quiet promise he made to the stars: 'No one will be alone in the dark.'"
She paused, letting the words settle like dust in the moonlight.
"He would swoop through the cities and forests, helping those in need. He moved so fast, no one ever saw him but only the wind, and the flicker of shadow across the moon. And when bad men looked into the night… they were afraid."
Mary brushed her thumb over her son's cheek.
"The people never knew his name. Only his symbol: wings wide, watching, waiting. A guardian in silence. A protector in flight. And though the lords searched for him, they never found him… because he wasn't a man. He was a legend."
Richard sat up a little, eyes sparkling. "Wow. I want to be just like him. A hero."
Mary chuckled and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"You can be anything you want, my little bird." She stood, leaving the warmth of the bed behind. "Good night, Richard."
"Good night, Mom."
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Richard alone in the soft dark. He closed his eyes… dreaming of wings.
14 years later
The shrill beep of an alarm shattered the morning silence. Richard Grayson, now twenty-three, slapped the clock into submission and groaned as he rolled out of bed. He dragged himself to the bathroom, staring into the mirror with bleary blue eyes and a mess of curly black hair.
"Still looking good," he muttered with a smirk, running a hand through it.
After a quick shower, he stepped into his closet and pulled on a sharp suit, adjusting his tie with practiced ease. He was almost out the door when he saw it the funeral pamphlet. Frayed edges, faded ink. Mary and John Grayson. Gone too soon.
He picked it up, fingers brushing over their names like a prayer.
"It's been three years since you both have been gone," he murmured. "Still miss you."
He grabbed his keys, locked up, and walked the hallway of his downtown apartment complex. The elevator dinged as he approached, but before the doors closed, a hand stopped them.
A woman stepped in, brown hair tied back, suit perfectly pressed. She lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head.
"Never seen you before," he said. "New?"
She blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Yeah. Just returned from service."
"Army?" he asked.
"Marines," she replied.
Dick nodded with respect. "Dick Grayson."
She took his hand, firm grip. "Elle Miller."
The elevator doors opened, and they both stepped out.
"Well, see you around, Elle," Dick said, giving a half-wave as he made his way to the parking lot. His baby sat there waiting a 1967 black Chevy Impala, rebuilt bolt by bolt with his own hands. He slid into the seat and turned the key. The engine purred.
The station was buzzing when he walked in. Phones ringing, voices rising, the scent of coffee and sweat in the air. Dick waved at a few familiar faces and plopped down at his desk. He flipped on the TV mounted in the corner, catching a live press conference.
Tony Stark stood at a podium, grinning like he owned the world.
"I am Iron Man."
Dick blinked, then chuckled. "This world's going crazy. First a mutant wrecks the Golden Gate Bridge, then some lizard freak tries turning Manhattan into Jurassic Park, and now this guy tells everyone he's a damn superhero."
"Hey, pretty boy."
Dick turned around. A big man with a stained tie and half-buttoned shirt towered behind him.
"Harvey," Dick grinned. "Let me guess weekend alone, tried to get lucky, failed miserably, then drowned your sorrows in whiskey and passed out in your own shame?"
Harvey sniffed himself and winced. "First off how? Second fuck you."
Dick laughed. "Love you too, fatass."
Before Harvey could throw something at him, a uniformed officer leaned over his desk.
"Cap wants you."
Dick sighed and stood, making his way to the captain's office. He knocked twice.
"Come in," came the voice.
Captain Levi Ackerman sat behind a desk, arms folded, eyes sharp as knives.
"Grayson," Levi said, sliding a manila file across the table. "New case."
Dick opened it. A crime scene photo a body dumped in an alley. The ID read: Marcus Flint. Affiliated with The Penguin.
"He worked with the Penguin," Dick said. "You want me on this because I'm close to getting his name."
Levi nodded. "You're one of my best detectives. I trust you."
Dick smirked. "Careful, Cap. Flattery and dinner, and I might start to think you like me."
Levi glared.
"Right. Got it. I'll get on it."
Dick left the office, but instead of diving into paperwork, he made a call.
"We need to talk."
The diner smelled like grease and old memories. Dick sat in a booth, coffee untouched. A woman walked in with red horns curled from her head like bone. She wore sunglasses and a red leather jacket.
"Dicky," she said with a smirk.
"It's just Dick, Trixie."
She slid into the seat. "I said call me Power, Dicky."
He rubbed his temples. "Power, what do you know about him?"
He slid the photo of Marcus across the table.
"Oh yeah," she said. "He was Penguin's crew. Heard the bird iced him himself said he was an informant. The others are looking for whatever he had on him."
"Any idea where he stashed it?"
Power smirked and held out her hand.
Dick sighed and slid her a hundred-dollar bill.
She tucked it away and whispered an address: 1429 Grimm Street, Lower East End.
"Thanks," he said, standing.
But as he walked out, Power pulled out her phone.
"He's got the address. Now release him."
A voice on the line responded, cold. "Yeah. Thanks for your cooperation."
"Fuck you," she muttered, hanging up. "Sorry, Dick. I need to protect my little brother."
Dick found the door to 1429 Grimm Street already ajar. He drew his gun and stepped inside. It smelled like mildew and something worse. In the center of the room, a man was tied to a chair, gagged and bleeding.
Dick rushed over, pulling the gag free.
"Behind you," the man rasped.
Too late.
The crowbar hit him across the head, and the world went black.
He woke to the smell of smoke and the sound of beeping.
Bomb.
He dove for the window, crashing through it just as the building exploded behind him. He landed hard in a dumpster, groaning.
"Fuck," he muttered, pulling himself out. "I smell like Harvey now."
He climbed into his Impala and raced to the station, a bad feeling creeping up his spine.
The moment he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong. The looks. The silence. The shift in the air.
He walked straight to Levi's office. Inside stood Commissioner Loeb.
"Thanks for bringing this to my attention," Levi said as Loeb nods and walked out without a glance.
Levi looked at Dick. "Sit down."
Dick sat. Levi played a video.
It showed a man who looked exactly like him taking money from someone in a suit, handing over a duffel bag, and the other man pulling out bricks of drugs.
"That's not me," Dick said, rising.
Levi didn't blink. "I know. But the higher-ups… they don't. You're on unpaid leave until the investigation's over. Badge and gun. Now."
Dick's eyes burned. "This is Penguin. He's framing me."
"Your obsession with him needs to end," Levi snapped. "You've never even seen him."
"I've met people who have they just can't remember his face. It's like… he's got someone with powers on payroll."
"Or they're lying."
Dick stood, furious, and slammed his badge on the desk. "No need for an investigation. I quit."
He left without another word, picked up the photo of his parents from his desk, and drove home. The apartment felt colder now. Smaller.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey. Then another.
By the time he passed out on the couch, bottle half-empty beside him, the shadows on the wall seemed to stretch… like wings.
And in the dark, he dreamed again of a bird with coal-black feathers and blue eyes watching, waiting.
A legend.