The rain in Blüdhaven had turned to ice, each drop a needle against your skin as you raced across the rooftops. The coordinates burned in your mind, a digital ghost from Dick's own commlink, now hijacked by that voice—that cold, mechanized baritone that promised pain.

"I have your little ally."

The words looped in your head, a taunting rhythm to match your frantic heartbeat. Ally. The term was so sterile, so completely inadequate it was almost laughable. Dick Grayson wasn't your ally. He was the man who left a window unlocked for you, who made terrible coffee and laughed about it, whose hands could be both impossibly gentle and brutally efficient. He was your sanctuary. And Deathstroke had him.

The warehouse was a tomb of rust and shadows, smelling of stale water and diesel. Your entrance was silent, a breath of wind, but he was waiting.

"Punctual. I appreciate that."

Deathstroke stood like a statue in the center of the vast, empty space. And there, at his feet, was Dick.

He was on his knees, head bowed. One of his escrima sticks was shattered beside him. The other was nowhere to be seen. His suit was torn at the shoulder, dark with more than just rain. A low, angry bruise was already flowering along his jaw. But it was the way he held himself that cracked something inside you—a tense, coiled shame, the posture of a man who had been outplayed and was furious at his own failure.

"The package is unharmed," Deathstroke stated, his single eye regarding you with cold amusement. "For now. He's a resilient thing. Took quite a bit of convincing to get him to stay put."

Dick's head lifted slightly at the sound of your footsteps. His blue eyes, usually so full of light and easy humor, were stormy with a self-directed rage you knew all too well. It was the look he got when a mission went south, when a civilian was hurt. This was his darker side- the consuming guilt that he had let someone down.

"You shouldn't have come," Dick's voice was rough, stripped of its usual charm. It was just raw gravel and pain. "It's a trap. Just... go."

Deathstroke backhanded him across the face without even looking. Dick's head snapped to the side, but he made no sound. He just slowly righted himself, spitting a thread of red onto the concrete, his gaze locked on the floor, burning with a humiliation that was worse than any physical blow.

"I don't want him," Slade continued, as if he'd merely swatted a fly. "His usefulness is as bait, and he's served his purpose. I'll let him walk. But first, you've got to tell me what I need."

He took a step toward you, his presence overwhelming. "The access codes to the Justice League's orbital watchtower."

Your blood ran cold. That wasn't just information; it was a key to the world's greatest arsenal.

Dick's head shot up, the shame in his eyes eclipsed by pure, unadulterated horror. "Don't," he pleaded, his voice desperate now. "Don't you dare. That's not an option. I am not an option. Do you understand me? Walk away."

He was begging you to choose the world over him. It was the only choice he could live with. The hero's choice. The Dick Grayson choice.

Deathstroke chuckled, a low, ugly sound. He placed a boot on Dick's back and shoved him forward, driving his face toward the cold concrete. Dick caught himself on his hands, his entire body trembling with the effort not to fight back, knowing it would only make this worse for you.

"Let's reframe the negotiation," Slade said calmly, drawing a long combat blade from his hip. He pressed the flat of the shiny weapon against Dick's neck, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make the threat terrifyingly clear. "You have ten seconds to give me the first sequence. Or I start proving just how unharmed he really isn't."

The math was unbearable. The safety of millions against the life of the man you loved. Dick was staring at the ground, preparing to absorb the damage so you wouldn't have to make the choice.

This wasn't just a rescue anymore.

It was a reckoning.