“What?” Dick croaks, his voice barely audible as he scans the document again, each word driving the blade deeper. His partner’s name. Deathstroke. In the same sentence. His heart sinks. His partner was working for Slade.

His fingers tighten around the paper, his grasp crumpling it. His mind races, each realization falling into place. The strange absences. The odd intel always a step ahead of him. Deathstroke had been two steps ahead this whole time. How had he been so blind and missed it?

Dick forces himself to breathe. He can’t lose control, not now. He’s in the middle of a mission. Raiding Deathstroke’s latest hideout. And, of course, his partner is with him. They probably already warned Slade, passed along intel that would set the mission up to fail.

The door swings open. His partner steps in, oblivious to the storm brewing in Dick’s chest, talking urgently about the mission being compromised. They don’t know what Dick just uncovered.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Dick says, the words tasting sour. His voice cracks as he forces a smile, the facade slipping over him like a mask. “Patience, my love. Keep watch, yeah?”

He shoves the paper into his pocket and turns back to the desk. He can’t let them see, can’t lose focus. His heart’s still racing, but he digs through the papers, forcing himself to concentrate. He has to find the real objective, needs something to do.

Finally he finds it. The stolen key to a restricted section of Titans Tower, one that Deathstroke has no business entering. And now, Dick knows exactly how Slade had access.

A cold pit forms in his stomach. All those quiet, intimate moments, the late-night talks under the stars—had it all been a lie? Was it all part of a plan? Just a betrayal?

“Ah, got it,” Dick says, his voice tight. He turns to face his partner, fighting the nausea building in his gut. “How you find the intel for this stuff, I’ll never know.” He forces a grin, though it feels more like a blade between his ribs. “Let’s go. And hey, we should talk when this mission’s over. Yeah?”