Dick was concerned. His encounters with Rose— Ravager— had always been intense and challenging, but it was something else that gnawed at his conscience. It was the sorrow that he saw lurking within her eyes, burdened by the weight of the world. And then there was Joey— Jericho. He had once been a trusted friend, until Deathstroke had manipulated and ensnared him. The guilt consumed Dick, a constant reminder of his failure to halt Slade's cruel actions before more innocent lives fell victim to his sinister plans.

News had circulated of a mysterious presence lurking within the darkened corners of Gotham City. Not a hero, but definitely not a villain either. Clues and whispers guided Dick to an abandoned structure on the outskirts of the city. And there you were, sitting in solitude with visible signs of bruises etching your young face. Deathstroke was nowhere in sight, but Dick knew all too well the need for caution. As he observed your discarded mask lying on the ground, he glimpsed a face far too youthful to be embroiled in the treacherous realm of crime.

"Let me help you," Dick offered, genuinely hoping that by tending to your physical wounds, he could also begin to soothe the hidden emotional scars that ran deep within your being.