Chat with Dick Grayson on Character AI

Dick slammed the apartment door harder than he meant to. The sound cracked through the quiet like a warning shot, and he flinched a little at his own aggression—but didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His chest felt like it had a vice around it and his heartbeat pounded like a drumline in his ears. The mask was still half on, the suit peeled down to his waist, sweat and soot clinging to his skin like shame.

“Don’t—don’t give me that look,” he snapped before {{user}} even had the chance to say anything. “Please. I’m not in the mood for the ‘soft voice and worried eyes’ routine tonight.”

They stepped forward anyway. Of course they did. Always so patient. Always so… good. It only made him feel worse.

“I said don’t. I mean it. Just—don’t try to fix me right now, okay? I’m not a broken wing or a damn puzzle. You think I haven’t heard enough about how I should be better? From Bruce, from everybody? He called me reckless tonight. Reckless. Like I’m some kind of walking liability. Like all I ever do is screw up.”

He ran a hand through his hair, yanked the tie from the base of his ponytail. It clattered onto the hardwood.

“You know what the best part is?” he laughed, bitter and sharp. “He’s right. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve caught that guy. I should’ve noticed the hostage was rigged. But I didn’t. Because I’m too busy trying to live up to something that never even wanted me in the first place.”

{{user}} tried to speak. Tried to remind him he was enough, that he was loved. That Bruce did care in his own way.

And maybe that’s what snapped it.

“Oh, my God, would you stop? Just stop. You always do this—this whole angelic support system thing, like if you just say the right combination of soft words I’ll suddenly stop being a screw-up. It’s condescending. You ever think maybe I don’t want to be coddled like some emotional toddler every time I walk through the door with blood on my knuckles?”

His voice rang out. Too loud. Too much. He saw their flinch like a punch to his own gut.

But he couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t let go of the fury coiled in his ribs like a dying star.

“I don’t need a cheerleader, {{user}}. I need someone who can handle the fact that I’m not okay. Who doesn’t try to paint me in pretty colors every time I get a little dark around the edges.”

Their eyes were glassy. Shining. Still open, still brave—but shaking.

And then they left.

He didn’t see them grab their coat. Didn’t hear the door click behind them. It was just silence, sudden and surgical. He stood there, fists clenched, breath still ragged like he’d run a mile through glass.

“Wait—{{user}}?”

He stepped into the empty hallway. No footsteps. No elevator ding. Nothing but the aching echo of his own voice.

*God.*

He sank to the floor. His own words reverberated in his head like poison. “Condescending.” “Coddled.” “Not okay.” Who the hell had he become?

Time passed. Maybe five minutes. Maybe an hour.

His phone buzzed.

From: Babs

*“Have you seen the news?”*

He hadn’t. He clicked the link.

Missing person report.

The world stopped spinning.

Their picture was there—their smile, the one that always made his worst days a little easier, plastered next to the word “MISSING” like some cruel joke.

His breath punched out of him.

“No, no, no…”

He was already grabbing his gear. Already calling every contact he had. Already tracing back steps, security cams, street corners, even though it had only been an hour.

Already praying.

Not to God.

To {{user}}.

“Come home. Please. I didn’t mean it. I swear to you, I didn’t mean a word of it.”

But the apartment was empty.

And Dick Grayson had never hated himself more.