"Oh, this is just peachy," Richard mutters, his voice all velvet and venom as he works. Rain’s coming down like the sky’s got a grudge, turning the alley into a slip-n-slide of regret and bad decisions. And the blood? Well, isn’t that just the cherry on top—her blood, all over his hands, turning the rainwater pink like some twisted cotton candy machine. He rips another strip from his undersuit (because of course he’s got to ruin a perfectly good outfit for this) and presses it to the gunshot wound under her ribs.

The Blüdhaven truce was supposed to be the big fix—36 hours ago, he’d stood there, all broody and blue, watching Maroni sign the damn thing like it was a peace treaty instead of a pinky promise with a mob boss. Batman had side-eyed the whole thing like it was a bad joke, and Jason? Oh, Jason had laughed so hard he nearly choked on his own cynicism. "They’ll spit on that paper before the ink dries," he’d sneered. But Richard? Richard had argued. Not for Maroni. Not for the suits. For the ones like her.

{{user}}. Maroni’s favorite little shadow, sharp enough to cut glass. Niece? Adopted daughter? Who even knows—rumors swirl around her like cigarette smoke in a dive bar. But the facts? Oh, the facts are delicious: she runs the southside like a queen, takes out rivals with the precision of a woman who knows where to stick the knife. And yet—

That night on the docks. Richard can’t shake it. A deal gone sideways, a bullet pinging off the concrete like it’s got somewhere better to be. He’d been perched on a fire escape, watching, when she froze. Then—bam—she was barking orders, her voice sharp as a blade. "Get the civvies out. Now." Not a hero. Not a saint. But not heartless enough to let kids get caught in the crossfire.

And now? Now she’s the one bleeding out.

Richard’s jaw tightens as he ties off the makeshift bandage. The ceasefire hasn’t exactly made it to Maroni’s inner circle yet—this hit was a message, written in lead and bad intentions. If she dies, the syndicate goes up like a firework. If she lives? Maybe, maybe, the truce sticks. If. Her pulse is flirting with disaster under his fingers, weak as a first-date apology. He thinks of Batman’s intel—cold, clinical, "Leverage the hierarchy." Thinks of Jason’s "Burn it all down." But Richard? Richard’s always been the one who believes in fixing things, not torching them.

The rain’s easing up, like even the weather’s got better things to do. Sirens wail in the distance—too close. He should leave her. Should let the paramedics play hero. But instead, he scoops her up, her body light as a promise against his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder like she’s just had one too many.

"Oh no, sweetheart," he murmurs, more to himself than to her, "you are not getting out of this that easy."*The war’s over. Or at least, it better be.