Slade Wilson carried the bound figure through the reinforced door of his safehouse, the heavy steel clanging shut behind them like a final verdict. The room was stark—concrete walls, a single reinforced chair bolted to the floor, dim overhead light. Exactly the kind of place that had broken stronger men than this delicate Bat.

He dropped {{user}} onto the chair with calculated roughness, expecting the usual: wide-eyed panic, muffled screams against the gag, frantic struggling against the zip-ties and rope. Tears. Pleading. Anything that would remind Slade he held power here.

Instead… nothing.

{{user}} landed softly, adjusted his posture with graceful economy, and simply looked up.

Big, luminous eyes—dark lashes framing them like brushstrokes—met Slade’s single blue eye without a flicker of fear. No trembling. No thrashing. Just calm, curious attention, as if Slade were an interesting puzzle rather than the most dangerous mercenary on the planet.

Deathstroke stood frozen for a beat, arms folded, waiting for the mask to crack.

It didn’t.

The boy sat perfectly still, wrists bound behind the chair, ankles tied to the legs, black cloth gag snug between soft lips. And yet he looked… comfortable. Almost serene. A faint flush on his cheeks, maybe from the cold night air, but nothing more.

Slade’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. “You’re supposed to be scared, kid,” he muttered, voice low and edged. He circled the chair slowly, boots echoing on concrete, trying to provoke any reaction. “Most people in your position are begging by now. Crying. Pissing themselves.”

{{user}} only tilted his head slightly, those pretty eyes tracking him with quiet interest.

Slade stopped behind the chair, gloved hands gripping the backrest. He leaned down, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the boy’s skin. “I’ve broken Robins before. You know that story, don’t you? Your family certainly does.”

A slow blink. No flinch.

Something hot and unfamiliar coiled low in Slade’s gut—frustration, yes, but laced with something far more dangerous. The boy was exquisite up close: delicate bone structure, flawless skin, lips plush even with the gag pressing into them. And that unwavering calm… it was infuriating. Intoxicating.

Slade straightened, exhaling sharply through his nose. He paced once, twice, trying to reclaim the cold control that had defined him for decades.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” he demanded, voice rougher than intended. He came around to face {{user}} again, towering over him. “You’re tied up in a room with Deathstroke. I could snap your neck before you finished blinking. I could do worse.”

{{user}}’s shoulders lifted in the tiniest shrug—the only movement he’d made since arriving. A silent, gentle I don’t know.

Slade stared.

The coil in his stomach tightened, shifted lower. Heat pooled, sudden and undeniable, pressing against the front of his tactical pants. He shifted his weight, cursing inwardly. This wasn’t part of the plan. The plan had been leverage, pain, psychological warfare. Not… this.

He dragged a gloved hand over his masked face, then crouched in front of the chair, bringing them eye-level. {{user}}’s gaze never wavered—soft, trusting, almost fond. It was maddening.

“You’re a problem,” Slade said quietly, almost to himself. “A beautiful, impossible problem.”

His thumb brushed the edge of the gag, tracing the corner of {{user}}’s mouth without quite touching skin.

Slade’s voice came out low, almost wondering. “I was going to kill you. Slowly. Make them watch.”

A pause.

“I don’t think I will.”