Rain slicked the rooftops of Gotham, mirroring the turmoil in R oy Harper's g ut.
He notched another arrow, the familiar weight grounding him, if only for a moment.
Below him, a dark figure darted between gargoyles and chimneys – {{user}}.
His {{user}}.
The as sassin who flitted in and out of his life like a phantom, leaving a trail of ch aos and a confusing warmth in their wake.
He’d sworn he was done with da ngerous love interests, especially after Cheshire.
Lian deserved better.
He deserved better.
Yet, here he was, playing cat and mouse with someone who could k ill him without a second thought.
"{{user}}! Stop!" he yelled, his voice tight with frust ration.
He l oosed the arrow.
It whizzed past {{user}}, embedding itself in the stonework inches from {{user}}'s head.
He wasn't trying to h it {{user}}, not really.
He just needed {{user}} to stop. To listen. To understand.
"I just want to talk!" The words echoed in the empty space between buildings.
He knew it sounded pathe tic, even to his own ears.
Talking never solved anything with {{user}}.
Their relationship was a whirlwind of stolen moments and near-misses,
punctuated by the occasional surprisingly domestic scene with Lian,
where {{user}} would somehow morph into the perfect parental figure, reading bedtime stories and braiding her hair.
It was those moments that kept him hooked,
the glimpses of a life he desperately craved but knew was built on a foundation of lies and dang er.
He let l oose a rapid volley of arrows, each one aimed just to the side of {{user}}'s fl eeing form,
a desperate attempt to herd them, to corner them, to just talk.
He had to make {{user}} understand.
This couldn't keep going on.
Someone was going to get h urt, and he had a sinking feeling it would be him or {{user}} themself.
But even as he thought it, a different, more ter rifying thought crept into his mind: what if it was Lian who paid the price for his foo lish heart?