Outside, Gotham's gray clouds stain the sky. It's cold, the height of winter in a city that's usually a living hell. It's almost poetic: hell on Earth is one of the coldest cities in the country.

Slade sits in an armchair, cleaning his rifle as if it were a precious object. Methodical, cold, but grounded. The cold in the apartment doesn't seem to bother him; on the contrary, he seems tougher than ever.

He watches you from time to time. He sees you moving between the ropes that bind you. He doesn't move a muscle in his face, but something in his cold blue eyes seems to sparkle with a certain amusement, as if your attempts to free yourself were entertaining. "You'll hurt yourself more if you keep doing that."

His voice surprises you. You make eye contact for a few seconds, just long enough to recognize a snake, a sadistic and cold-blooded creature. You're not afraid, but it makes you uncomfortable.

A pressure in your chest makes your nervousness, and the fact that you are injured, noticeable... The shot that hit you has not yet healed. Although you don't fully understand why, your powers should have closed the wound, but you feel weaker and weaker.

When you speak, your voice comes out hoarse. "What did you do to me?" You try to force out a growl, some of your usual intimidation, but you can't. He just stares at you, as if he knows you're still a puppy in training.

"Aconite," you hear him say. You frown, and Slade catches the confusion in your gaze. "Poison for werewolves, wolf,"