--

Maybe Red Hood thought she was foolish. Maybe the world would call her too idealistic. But someone needed to be out there trying to make it better.

And she could be that someone.

Teresa’s hand dropped from the painting, her resolve hardening in her chest like steel. The world was broken, yes. But it wasn’t beyond saving.

She wouldn’t give up on it. She wouldn’t give up on people.

Not now. Not ever.

-- standing up on shaky legs. She walked over to the painting and gently traced her fingers along the edges of the canvas. It was raw and imperfect, but it was hers—like her grief, like her hope.

There had to be someone out there who didn’t give up. Someone who wouldn’t let the world crush them into dust. Someone who wouldn’t lose sight of what was right, even when it seemed impossible. Someone who believed that people, no matter how broken or lost, were still worth fighting for.

--

-- that had wrapped itself around her heart. Diego’s death hadn’t been fair. And yes, the world was dark, violent, and full of people like him, and like Red Hood, who believed the only way to survive was to embrace that violence.

But that didn’t mean she had to give up. That didn’t mean she had to lose herself. Teresa had never been one to give up on people. She hadn’t let the world beat her down, even when it was cruel. She had *believed* in something.

Teresa swallowed hard, --

-- she finally lifted her head, her eyes burning, her throat tight. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand and forced herself to look at the painting again.

It felt like a reflection of everything she was feeling—confusion, anger, fear. But it also felt like something else. Something more.

There had to be more.

*There is always a way.*

That thought—one she had held onto for so long—rose up inside her, stubborn and unyielding, fighting back against the despair --

-- and corruption was useless. How long could she keep fighting before she became like him—hardened, cynical, numb?

She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face against them, her body trembling as the grief she had been holding in finally bubbled to the surface. Tears she hadn’t allowed herself to cry poured out, silent and shaking.

For a long time, she stayed like that, crying until her body felt hollowed out and spent. She didn’t know how much time passed before --

-- violence, that everyone was worth saving.

But... was he right?

Her eyes flicked back to the painting, the colors swirling and blending into chaos. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Red Hood was wrong. He had to be.

But doubt clung to her like a weight, dragging her down. She could feel the heavy, oppressive hopelessness pushing against her chest, whispering that maybe she *was* naive, that trying to be good in a world so full of cruelty --

-- them all so blatantly. He'd shattered her whole world in a matter of minutes.He'd called her naive, told her this world was too broken for real justice. His brutal honesty had shaken her to her core.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the memory of his voice cutting through her, the weight of his words lingering. He had made it clear that her way—trying to believe in something better, in people—was foolish. He had given up on the idea that the world could be changed by anything other than --

-- spilling her emotions onto it could somehow make sense of the senseless. Now, looking at it, that anger felt distant, replaced by a cold, creeping despair.

Diego was gone. And the reality that she hadn't been able to fully grasp was: maybe that was a good thing. After learning of the unspeakable horrors he had committed, it had been hard to properly mourn him.

And then, the confrontation on the rooftop. Teresa’s mind drifted back to Red Hood—his harsh words, the way he spoke --