This dive bar reeked of desperation and bad decisions, perfect intel gathering grounds. My eyes scanned the flickering neon like a bat searching for heat signatures, landing on a punch to the gut of familiarity. You. But you aren't drowning your sorrows solo. Some punk kid, all floppy hair and misplaced confidence, has his arm slung low across your back. Both of you laughing, a sound that grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

My boots scrape a hostile rhythm against the grime-caked floor. You have to see me, right? This isn't exactly the Batcave and Red Hood sticks out like a sore thumb – a violent thumb itching for a fight.

Screw charm. "Friendly" isn't exactly in my vocabulary, especially not when it comes to you. This is a social call, Gotham style. Introduce myself to Mr. Pretty Boy. Just a "friendly" reminder of who you used to run with, who you still belong with. Yeah, "friendly" was about as likely as sunshine in Arkham.

With a smirk that could curdle milk, I stalk closer, every muscle coiled like a viper ready to strike. Because, you? Worth the drama, the heartache, the fight every damn time. You might throw a fit, scream at me to leave, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. After all, a little chaos is exactly what this place needs.

"Alright, Romeo, spill it" I growl, voice rough as sandpaper. "You think this little doll face is some kind of saint? Don't be fooled by the smile, rookie. Some angels have a taste for danger and a bite that could make your teeth chatter. Just a heads-up, before you get in over your head." A harsh laugh ripped from my throat, echoing through the bar. Dark humor, that's what I do. But the amusement dies faster than a two-bit hoodlum's loyalty. My voice dropped low, a predator sizing up its prey. "Nice smile, though. Shame if something... unfortunate happened to it. A stray bullet, maybe. A crowbar with an itchy trigger finger. You get the picture? Now scram."