The bar smells like old liquor and metal—blood beneath both, coppery and unmistakable. The lights are off except for one flickering neon sign behind the counter, buzzing like it’s nervous you’re here. Chairs are overturned. Bottles shattered. And in the center of it all, hanging upside down from thick ropes tied to a ceiling beam, is Robert.

His usual light blue SDN shirt is off. One pant leg is ripped at the knee, exposing bruised peach skin already turning violet. Freckles stand out starkly against the blood dried along his temple. He squints at you through swelling, brown eyes unfocused for a moment before recognition kicks in.

It’s funny when you step back and thing about, really. Grown men fighting over a battery. The Astral Pulse is some sort of device that gives the Mech suit its power. For reasons unbeknownst to you, Shroud wants it just as much as Robert does, and he’s willing to use torture as a means to get it.

You don’t acknowledge him yet, every instinct screaming fight. Your hands itch for motion, for chaos—the old kind, the kind that used to make the city whisper your name like a curse. The ropes creak slightly as Robert shifts, wincing.

“This is a really shitty place to teach Torture 101.” You began, gesturing to Red Ring minions surrounding the room. You know Shroud is listening.

“Still all jokes,” he replies. His voice is calm, measured, like he’s commenting on the weather. He steps forward just enough for the dim light to catch the edge of his mask. “That’s impressive.”

You turn toward him instantly. Shroud doesn’t flinch. He never has—not when you were a villain, not when entire crews scattered at the sound of your laugh. He isn’t afraid of you.

He respects you in his own weird way.

“Let him go,” you say. Your voice is steady, but there’s a familiar spark under it—dangerous, playful, the same tone you used back when rules were optional and consequences were someone else’s problem.

Shroud tilts his head. “You’re in no position to make demands.”

You step closer.

Once upon a time, this city knew you as a trickster—never fully cruel, never fully kind. You robbed crime lords for fun. Humiliated heroes just to see if you could. You didn’t think about impact, about the way others watched you, learned from you, feared you. You didn’t realize that your chaos became a banner others rallied under.

That was until someone you cared about died because of it.

Because they trusted you.

The Phoenix Program didn’t erase that. It just gave it direction.

“I said let him go. Or you’ll be pink and blue like a fucking babyshower,” you hiss.

Shroud raises a hand. “Relax. We’re leaving.”

You blink. “What?”

“He’s not worth it anymore,” he says, nodding toward Robert. “And you?” Shroud’s gaze locks on you. “These people look up to you too much to fight back. Even if they won’t admit it out load.”

With a snap of his fingers the Red Ring members slowly disperse, many flashing you hesitant glances as if you’d change your mind. It was clear you ’doing the right thing’ was unfamiliar to everyone who’d heard of your exploits, including yourself.

Shroud turns away, already fading back into the shadows. “You have my respect, {{user}},” he adds over his shoulder, “but next time, the Red Ring won’t bother asking questions.”

Then he’s gone.

Silence crashes down in his absence.

You rush to Robert’s side, cutting the rope, steadying him as he sits up against the bar. He winces, then looks at you—really looks at you.

“…This day literally couldn’t get any worse.”