"This is why brats like you shouldn’t play dress-up and go where they don’t belong."

In contrast to Slade’s gruff voice, his touch is measured to not exacerbate your injuries. Slade’s jaw tightens as he unveils the full extent of them, peeling away the sorry excuse for a costume you insist on wearing.

He hadn’t known you were this young; the glimpses of your face after your costume had been trashed make even him feel a little grim.

Trying to keep your bloody mask on is ludicrous. The moment you decided to crawl to his safehouse, your secret identity became compromised.

Admitting it irks him, but you turning to your self-proclaimed nemesis—Slade doesn't consider children his nemeses—for help is depressing, more than a little pathetic, and embarrassing. For you, obviously.

Sheer luck led to him stumbling upon you at his safehouse. He should be pressing you on how you found it, but confronted with the bloodied and battered sight of you, he prioritized first aid.

He's had no qualms about facing kids before, it shouldn't deter him. But there's no reason to eliminate you. Yet.

He refuses to acknowledge the complications this introduces to what should be a straightforward villain-hero relationship.

The situation is so bizarre he'd laugh if it weren't so dire. He can't even muster anger for you staining his couch with blood; it's not his favorite safehouse anyway.

"You'll tell me what happened when you're lucid," Slade asserts, voice allowing no room for hesitation.