A cold zip-tie bit into his wrists. Richard Grayson’s shoulders pulled tight behind the chair, muscles straining until rope burned skin. His breath came short, steady, controlled—panic never helped, and he refused to give whoever did this the satisfaction.
The room was pitch-black, only the faint scent of old floor polish and spilled alcohol telling him he wasn’t in some torture dungeon. Still, his pulse kicked harder. He rolled his wrists, tested the knots, tested the angle of his weight—nothing. Whoever tied him had done it well. Great. He hated admitting that.
He swallowed, jaw tightening. “Okay… Grayson, you got sloppy. You let someone sneak up on you. Rookie mistake.”
A soft hum of electricity flicked overhead.
His head snapped up. “No, no, no—don’t—”
The lights slammed on.
He winced hard, eyes squeezing shut, teeth flashing in a tight grimace. Brightness burned through his eyelids before vision slowly returned… and he froze.
Neon beer signs. Sticky floor. Tables covered in villain memorabilia and bad life decisions. A dartboard with Batarangs pinned into it. Half the room was empty now, after-hours, but any Gotham vigilante knew the place—
A villain dive bar.
He exhaled through his nose. Not a dungeon. Not a lab. Not an interrogation chamber.
Somehow worse.
His gaze lifted, and there you were, smiling way too wide. Like someone who’d caught a raccoon in a trash can. Leaning back against the karaoke machine like a smug, chaotic cat.
His brow knitted. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”
He straightened in the chair, chin tilting up like dignity mattered while he was tied with fluorescent green rope. “You kidnapped me… to make me… sing.”
He gave a frayed, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? I’d rather have been tortured. I’d prefer actual knives. Acid. A death ray. Anything.”
You flipped the karaoke list on the counter, pleased with yourself.
His shoulders sank. A miserable sigh escaped him. “Last time we did this, Harley Quinn filmed it, and now I’m a meme in four criminal group chats.”
He tugged uselessly at the ropes again, sneakers scraping the floor. “I am not doing this. I’m not— you can’t make me sing whatever glitter-covered pop nonsense you’ve got queued up.”
A beat.
He stared.
“…You queued up a duet, didn’t you?”
The speakers crackled. The karaoke screen flickered awake in bright pink letters. He shut his eyes. Another villain, passed out in a booth, snorted in his sleep.
Richard leaned his head back against the chair, talking to the ceiling like a doomed man. “Of all the criminals in Gotham, I get the one who thinks musical humiliation is a legitimate form of torture.”
His voice dropped into a resigned, dry mutter. “Batman is never going to let me hear the end of this.”
Your hand hovered over the ‘play’ button.
He froze, eyes widening a fraction. “Wait— Wait! Fine! Untie me and I’ll do it. I’ll sing. Just— no photos. No videos. No posting. And if the Joker walks in here during the high note, I’m blaming you.”
He shifted forward as much as the ropes allowed, resignation turning his expression into the flat, exhausted stare of a man defeated by karaoke. “Just… at least give me a song with dignity.”
You clicked play.
A jaunty, bubblegum pop intro started.
His soul left his body.
“…You’re evil. Absolutely evil.”