Claire picked up her phone as naturally as if that long explanation about the world repeating and impending crises had been nothing more than routine.
Her movements were smooth, uninterrupted. Her fingers dialed with practiced familiarity as she lifted her head and looked toward the two brothers, who were still standing there, clearly not done processing everything.
“What flavor do you want?” she asked calmly.
Then, as if already planning for them, she added that she’d order two kinds—like she had already decided how this dinner would go.
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Jason tilted his head slightly and glanced at Dick.
They didn’t speak.
But something quick and silent passed between them.
He ran through the situation in his mind at speed.
The whole thing was absurd—unnatural, unsettling—but at least for now, there was no immediate threat.
It couldn’t possibly be some elaborate trap just to get pizza sauce splattered on them, permanently staining their vigilante suits.
The thought flashed through his mind.
Even he found it ridiculous.
So he dismissed it and spoke instead.
“I’ll take supreme.”
His tone was clean and decisive, like he was grabbing onto the simplest choice available in the middle of all this chaos.
Also—
he was hungry.
Claire nodded, saying nothing more. She simply took a pen and circled a spot on the newspaper advertisement, her movement clean and precise.
Dick, standing nearby and listening to Jason order, seemed to be pulled along by the strangely normal—almost absurdly domestic—atmosphere. He spoke up as well.
“I’ll take Hawaiian.”
His tone was natural.
Almost… matter-of-fact.
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Claire’s movement paused for a fraction of a second.
Then she slowly turned her head.
Her gaze locked directly onto Dick—completely undisguised, carrying a kind of pure, unfiltered judgment.
She was silent for a second.
Then, in a voice that was calm—yet somehow carried an inexplicable pressure, she said,
“Pineapple does not belong on pizza.”
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Jason, standing off to the side, had one immediate thought—
Ah. Italian purist.
The type with strict rules about pizza. The kind that would argue over toppings like it actually mattered.
Before he could think further, Dick had already responded without hesitation, defending his choice.
“Huh? But Hawaiian pizza is actually really good. The sweetness of the pineapple with the saltiness of the ham—it’s a perfect combination.”
His tone was sincere.
Even a little self-assured.
Not a hint of backing down.
—
Jason’s mouth twitched slightly.
He really wanted to say something—this is what you’re arguing about right now?—but before he could open his mouth, the woman across from them had already put her phone down.
Then she stood up.
Slowly.
And began walking toward them.
Not rushed.
But every step—
deliberate.
She stopped in front of Nightwing.
Close—close enough to almost invade his personal space.
Then, naturally, she placed a hand on his shoulder.
Her body leaned slightly forward. Her face moved closer to his, the distance between them shrinking to almost nothing. Her eyes narrowed just a little, and in a lowered but perfectly clear voice, she said,
“Pineapple on pizza prevents the acidity of the tomato from coming through. You’ve killed the pizza.”
She said it with complete seriousness.
Serious enough that it didn’t sound like a joke at all.
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Jason stood off to the side, already slipping into a state of what the hell is even happening right now.
He really wanted to say something.
Really.
The sarcasm was already at the back of his throat, ready to come out.
But he held it in.
Because the scene in front of him was just too bizarre.
The two of them stood extremely close—almost pressed together. Both of them had their eyes slightly narrowed. Neither stepped back. Neither gave in.
They just stood there, silently staring at each other—
like they were engaged in some completely unnecessary, yet utterly serious, standoff.
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They stood there, staring at each other.
Neither of them looked away.
They were close enough to feel each other’s breathing, the rhythm almost overlapping. The air between them tightened—not in a dangerous way, but in something far more absurd… and yet intensely serious.
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Jason stood to the side, watching the whole thing.
The urge to comment was building—stacking up, nearly overflowing.
But before he could say anything—
Claire suddenly said, without warning,
“1992.”
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Jason froze.
For a split second, his mind filled with a massive question mark.
He couldn’t follow the leap in logic at all.
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Another layer of whatever the hell this situation was?
But before he could even process it, he saw Dick smile.
That kind of smile—ah, I see.
And without hesitation, Dick replied,
“1992.”
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And just like that—
Jason understood.
Not a code.
Not a clue.
A birth year.
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His expression shifted instantly, turning complicated in a way he couldn’t even begin to explain.
There was only one conclusion his brain could come up with—
Don’t tell me… these two are actually competing over who’s older using their birthdays.
The moment that thought formed, he almost lost it.
He almost said something.
But the two people in front of him had already fully entered some kind of bizarre battle state.
Neither of them showed any sign of stopping.
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Their eyes narrowed at the same time.
That look—just moments ago still carrying a trace of humor—shifted completely.
Replaced by something else.
Something sharper.
Something that said—
this has to be settled.
The tension rose visibly, like a switch that should never have been flipped had just been turned on.
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Claire spoke again, slowly.
Her tone dropped—low and steady, like she was revealing the next layer of an answer.
“March.”
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Dick’s smile didn’t fade.
If anything, it grew.
Almost at the same time, he replied,
“March.”
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Jason, standing off to the side, had completely given up trying to understand what was happening.
He just watched the two of them go back and forth, like they were engaged in some utterly meaningless yet strangely intense duel—
and somehow, the tension was actually rising.
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Claire paused.
As if she were placing her final card on the table.
She looked at Dick, and spoke the last clue, slowly—
“27th.”
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Dick’s smile widened in that instant.
Not a normal smile.
The kind a gambler shows when flipping over the final card—already certain of victory.
Without hesitation, he answered,
“20th. I win.”
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The moment those words fell—
the entire standoff snapped.
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Claire froze.
For the first time, her expression changed.
That calm, controlled composure—completely cracked.
Slowly, she removed her hand from Dick’s shoulder. The movement was slightly delayed, like she hadn’t fully processed the result yet.
She took a step back.
Then another.
Then sat back down in the chair at the center of the room, as if something inside her had suddenly given way.
Her hand lifted slowly, covering her face, fingertips pressing against her forehead.
Her voice dropped, quiet—almost like she was speaking to herself.
“I lost… only seven days apart… I really thought I was the older one… I’ve disgraced my Italian grandmother…”
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Two minutes later, the atmosphere in the room finally began to settle.
That bizarre yet intensely serious confrontation from earlier seemed to fade under the passage of time, leaving only faint ripples lingering in the air.
Claire remained seated, her hand still covering her face.
She stayed like that for a while—caught in that state of my entire worldview needs to be reorganized—before slowly lowering her hand.
She took a deep breath.
As if accepting something she didn’t want to accept, but couldn’t change.
Then she stood up.
Her movements were noticeably slower than before, and even her voice carried a trace of fatigue, a quiet resignation, as she said she would call and order the supreme and Hawaiian pizzas.
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Jason watched her stand.
At first, it was just instinct—his gaze following the motion.
But then, something he had heard earlier suddenly surfaced again in his mind.
He frowned slightly, as if checking whether his memory was correct.
Then he spoke.
“Wait. Your birthday is on the 27th?”
Claire paused.
She turned her head and nodded naturally, not thinking much of it.
Jason continued, his tone now carrying a clear direction—
“Then… isn’t that today?”
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The moment those words were spoken — Dick, who had still been riding the afterglow of victory, froze for a second.
His expression stilled slightly, like something in his mind had suddenly clicked into place.
He recalled what Claire had just said.
Today was March 27.
Which meant—
that entire “who’s older” showdown had just happened on the birthday of the person involved.
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The two brothers looked at Claire at the same time.
Almost perfectly in sync.
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And the person being looked at—
reacted a beat slower.
Claire had been standing there, about to continue the process she had been interrupted from.
But under the weight of their gaze, she seemed to realize something.
She stopped.
Then slowly turned back to look at them.
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The next second, her expression changed.
Not the frustration from before.
Not calm.
But something much simpler.
Pure surprise.
As if—
she had only just remembered.
Today—
was her birthday.
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The three of them eventually ended up in a supermarket.
The scene itself was already a little… unreasonable.
Nightwing and Robin were still in full costume, moving between the aisles like they had absolutely no awareness of how conspicuous the combination was, while Claire walked beside them, her expression already settled back into a kind of practiced calm.
The reason was actually simple.
Nightwing and Robin had insisted on making her a cake.
And they had done it with such seriousness that it was difficult to refuse outright.
So what had originally been a straightforward plan to deal with dinner had somehow turned into this—an outing that had completely drifted off course.
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It just so happened to be Easter.
The entire supermarket felt livelier than usual, filled with an almost overwhelming sense of festivity.
The shelves were packed with holiday items, the colors bright to the point of excess.
Candies were shaped like rabbits and decorated eggs.
Chocolate apples were neatly arranged in clear boxes.
And a wide assortment of baking ingredients had been gathered into one section.
Among them, the most eye-catching display—
was a row of boxed kits labeled “Ugly Lamb Cake.”
The image on the packaging wasn’t an elegant dessert, but a crooked, oddly-shaped sheep with a strangely expressive face.
There was even a note printed on it, explaining that this was an Easter tradition—the uglier the cake, the more successful it was.
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The two brothers stopped in front of the display at almost the exact same time.
They lowered their heads, reading the description on the box with focused attention—like they were studying mission intel.
From the ingredients, to the step-by-step instructions, to that line about how the uglier it is, the better—everything about it felt absurd, and yet strangely compelling.
Jason even reached out and picked up a box, turning it over to read the back carefully.
Dick stood beside him, already wearing that look—the kind of smile that meant he was genuinely getting interested in something.
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At that moment, Claire pushed the shopping cart over.
She took one look at the two of them, so absorbed, and rolled her eyes without the slightest attempt to hide it.
The contents of her cart were completely different in tone.
A few cans of beer.
Three ready-made sandwiches.
Simple, practical packaging.
This was her replacement plan for the now-cancelled pizza dinner.
She had already mapped it out in her head—once they got back, she could just heat the bread slightly, and dinner would be done.
Quick.
Efficient.
Zero risk.
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She didn’t say anything.
She simply reached out, grabbed a box of the ugly lamb cake mix from the shelf, and dropped it into the cart in one clean motion—like she had accepted this deviation from the plan.
Then she turned to the two “grown boys” who were still studying the box.
“Let’s check out.”
Her tone was flat.
No question.
No discussion.
As if the decision had already been made for them.
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And at the checkout—
things took another unnecessary turn.
Jason stood at the counter and spoke up directly, saying it had been his idea to make the cake, so he should pay.
His tone carried a sense of matter-of-fact responsibility, like this was a simple and obvious division of roles.
He reached to his waist, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open with practiced ease, ready to pay.
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The cashier glanced at the items in the cart.
Especially the cans of beer.
Their expression immediately shifted—polite, professional, but firm.
They refused the payment outright.
The reason was simple.
Minors aren’t allowed to purchase alcohol.
Even if you’re Robin.
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Jason froze.
He lifted his head and looked at the cashier.
Then looked back down at his wallet.
The whole situation locked him in place, suspended in a very awkward pause.
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The next second, he turned his head.
His gaze landed directly on Dick.
He didn’t say a word.
But the meaning in that look was unmistakable.
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Almost at the same time, Dick reached out and gently stopped Claire, who was about to take out her credit card.
He didn’t explain.
He simply pulled out a stack of cash—no one knew from where—and handed it to the cashier.
Exact amount.
Clean motion.
The entire purchase paid off in one go.
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and then Add to home screen.