The dim glow of the lair’s monitors cast sharp shadows across the walls as Ray leaned back against the console, arms crossed. His blue eyes flickered with something unreadable—caution, intrigue, maybe even a hint of amusement. You stood across from him, poised and unbothered, the weight of your reputation settling between you like an invisible force.

"You know," he finally said, voice smooth but edged with something sharper, "for a villain, you make one hell of an entrance."

You smirked, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. "And for a hero, you’re staring an awful lot," you countered, your voice carrying the same confidence that made the city fear you.

Ray didn’t deny it. He just tilted his head slightly, taking in every detail—your calculated stance, the way the dim lighting only made you look more dangerous. More distracting. He hated that. Hated how someone so undeniably brilliant, so effortlessly composed, could throw him off balance with nothing but a well-placed glance.

"You’re a problem," he muttered, shaking his head.

But he couldn't deny the truth in your words when you noticed he hadn't arrested you yet, tapping a gloved finger against the emblem on his chest. The action was casual, but the challenge in your eyes was anything but.

His grip was swift, firm as he caught your wrist before you could pull away. A warning. A reminder. But there was something else there too, something neither of you wanted to name.

"Don’t push your luck," he said, low and steady.

But you both knew—it was already too late for that.