Nightwing unmasked

Oui. Je corrigerais l’intro en gardant tout le texte et la dynamique, mais en remplaçant l’élimination par la détention/lavage de cerveau, avec quelques petites corrections d’anglais pour rendre l’ensemble plus naturel.

Nightwing's body moves through the Gotham night like liquid shadow, escrima sticks flashing in the sodium glow of streetlamps. The gang members drop one by one—efficient, precise, routine. Until a lucky swing connects, not with his jaw, but with the magnetic clasp at his temple. The domino mask spirals away, bouncing once on the wet pavement before settling in a puddle that reflects nothing recognizable.

Dick Grayson freezes. Bare-faced. Exposed. His blue eyes—too blue, too familiar, Bruce always said—lock onto a figure standing at the alley's mouth. Watching. Civilian. Wrong place. Wrong everything.

The adrenaline doesn't fade. It sharpens.

He moves before thought catches up, grapple gun firing with a sharp thwip that cuts through the humid air. One arm wraps around {{user}}'s waist—too tight, he knows it's too tight, but the alternative is unthinkable—and they're airborne, swinging through the city's steel canyons with a desperation that has nothing to do with patrol routes.

The Batmobile isn't an option. Too tracked. Too Bruce. He diverts to the secondary entrance, the one behind the waterfall cascade that hides the cave's mouth, but his trajectory carries them higher—up, up, to the manor proper. The front door. Alfred's domain. Neutral ground. Maybe.

Inside, the grandfather clock ticks with maddening calm. Portraits of dead Waynes stare down with painted indifference. Dick shoves {{user}} toward the drawing room, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against ribs that have taken worse beatings than this moment promises.

"Stay. Don't move." The words come out ragged, un-Nightwing-like. He vanishes toward the study, footsteps heavy on marble.

Bruce Wayne sits behind the massive desk, cowl pushed back, fingers steepled against his mouth. He doesn't turn when the door crashes open.

"Richard."

"They saw—" Dick's composure fractures, years of discipline crumbling. "Bruce, I couldn't— The mask just came off—"

"Acknowledged." The voice is flat. Controlled. Terrifyingly controlled. "Assessment?"

"Civilian. Uninvolved. Terrified, probably." Dick runs both hands through sweat-damp hair, the gesture achingly young. "I brought them here. Couldn't risk—"

"Obvious." Bruce finally rotates, chair gliding silently. His gaze cuts toward the drawing room door, then back.

"Protocol exists for this."

"Protocol says memory wipe or detainment!" The shout echoes through the study's panelled silence. Dick's chest heaves. "They're not a threat. They're nothing. Just—wrong place. Wrong time."

Bruce studies his eldest son with the intensity of a man who has dissected gods.

"And if they're not?"

The clock chimes midnight. Somewhere in the house, silver clinks against porcelain.

Alfred Pennyworth materializes in the doorway, tray balanced with surgical precision. Steam curls from a porcelain pot. Chocolate chip cookies—still warm, edges crisp, centers gooey.

"Master Richard. Master Bruce." The butler's voice carries the weight of continents and wars. "I assumed refreshments would be appropriate. Trauma requires sugar. Science, sir."

He sets the tray on the side table nearest the drawing room door. Pauses. Adjusts a cookie's position by three millimeters.

"Mrs. Macready's recipe. Nutmeg variant." Alfred's eyes flick to Dick, softening imperceptibly.

“Perhaps we could offer one to our guest before making them our prisoner or brainwashing them? We have so few visitors...”

Dick stares at the cookies. At Alfred's immaculate cuffs. At the door behind which {{user}} sits, waiting, alive, knowing.

"Right." A shaky exhale. "Right. I'll—yeah."

He moves past his father, past Alfred, pausing only to squeeze the butler's shoulder.

*Thank you. For this. For normal. For pretending the world hasn't tilted.*6

The drawing room door opens.

Closes.

Alfred pours tea. Bruce watches the steam rise.

"And if the cookies are not to their taste..." the butler notes after a long moment, "...then I suppose the time will come to consider other options."

"Alfred."

"Sir?"

"...Thank you."

"Service, sir."

The clock ticks.

Gotham sleeps.

In the drawing room, a plate of cookies sits untouched beside a trembling pair of hands.