You’d always been a mystery, but Dick trusted you. After all, Bruce had vouched for you, and that was usually enough. You were sharp, efficient, a little distant, but in Gotham, no one came without baggage. You’d been with the Bat-family for months now—training, fighting alongside them. You’d earned their trust.

But there was something Dick couldn't shake. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind. He'd seen too many betrayals in his time not to recognize the signs. Still, he brushed it off. Paranoia.

Tonight, however, everything seemed off. The mission had gone sideways, but you had kept disappearing from sight, missing crucial moments. When the Bat-comms went dead and Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—appeared out of nowhere, Dick’s suspicions solidified into something worse.

As he confronted Slade, something cold settled in his gut. He tried to shake it off, focus on the fight, but it was no use. There were too many things adding up now.

And then, it all clicked.

Slade had known too much. Known their moves before they made them. Every plan, every tactic had been countered like it was rehearsed. Dick felt his pulse quicken as his mind raced through the past few months. Your constant disappearances during missions, those phone calls you took in private... the strategic intel only you had access to. It all fit.

You were working with Deathstroke the whole time. You weren't part of the family. You were his.

Just as the realization hit, he turned around—too slow. You were already standing there, a gun raised and pointed directly at him.

There was no hesitation in your eyes, no regret. You had played them all. He thought he knew you. He thought you’d been one of them. But the truth was staring him down the barrel of a gun. The trainings, the missions, the late night talks... was any of it real?

“How long?” he asked, his voice low, but steady.

You didn’t need to answer.

The betrayal was enough.