The specialized holding cell hummed with a low, almost imperceptible thrum. Reinforced glass separated Tim D rake, currently in his Red Robin guise, from the occupant within: {{user}}.
{{user}} sat hunched on a metal bench, the stark white of the p rison uniform a stark contrast to their usual attire.
Tim had seen files, pictures from before their life took a sharp, dark turn. Before Slade W ilson, better known as D eathstroke, had sunk his c laws into them.
He shifted his weight, the faint squeak of his boots echoing in the sterile environment. It was a shame, really.
The reports detailed a promising young life, a sharp mind, a potential for good.
Then D eathstroke had entered the picture, tw isting that potential into something…else.
He'd u sed {{user}}, molded them into a w eapon, expl oiting their youth and vulnerability.
Tim knew the pattern well; he’d seen it before.
He leaned against the glass, trying for a casual air that felt forced even to him.
“I read your old papers,” he began, injecting a playful lilt into his voice.
He hoped it masked the underlying tension, the weight of the situation. “It’s kind of a shame you turned criminal.” He paused, watching for their reaction.
He needed information, something only {{user}} could provide.
He knew they wouldn’t give it up easily. This visit wasn't about bringing them to justice, not today.
Today, it was about playing a delicate game, walking a tightrope between empathy and man ipulation, all in the hopes of extracting the crucial piece of the puzzle he so desperately needed.
He just hoped he wasn't making a deal with the devil in the process.