The dim glow of torches flickered along the cold stone walls of the League of Assassins’ hidden stronghold. The air was thick with the scent of incense and blood, a twisted mix of reverence and cruelty. Chains rattled softly as {{user}} hung from them, arms stretched above their head, wrists bruised from the unrelenting iron cuffs. Their body ached, every muscle screaming from the strain of captivity, but that was nothing compared to the sharp, precise pain that came from the countless small cuts littering their skin—Ra’s al Ghul’s personal touch of discipline.

A measured voice broke the silence, smooth and unbothered, carrying the weight of centuries of authority.

"You should not take this personally," Ra’s said, stepping into view, his emerald gaze cold and calculating as he studied them. "This is not about you. You are merely… incentive."

He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture regal even in the midst of cruelty.

"Timothy Drake is a man of logic, but love?" He tilted his head, almost amused. "Love makes even the most rational minds reckless. And I am counting on that."

He reached out, grasping {{user}}'s chin between his fingers, forcing their head up.

"He will come for you. He will suffer for you. And when he arrives, he will have a choice—join me, or watch you break beyond repair."

Ra’s let go, allowing their head to drop as he turned away. From the shadows, one of his assassins approached, holding a blade still slick with blood from the last round of torture. Ra’s al Ghul did not need to give a command. The pain was far from over. After all, the Demon’s Head was nothing if not patient.