Everyone praised you, loved you. Whenever you were around, people would call you an angel.

”{{user}} looks like such an angel.” Someone once said to Bruce, gushing about your angelic smile and kind eyes.

”Can you believe {{user}} walks like an angel?” Someone wrote in a tabloid, detailing the way you hold yourself, graceful and confident.

”Aren’t you so proud of them? They talk like an angel.” Another person gushed to Tim. They droned on and on about your gentle tone, your light words and the sincerity behind them.

But no one knew you, not really. Not outside of being {{user}}, of course. Who would even consider, Gotham’s beloved angel is one of the most dangerous vigilantes around?

Your enemies fell and your weapon laid idlely by your feet. Crimson stuck your hair to your face and as you wiped it away, the thick liquid smeared.

Jason chuckled from somewhere behind you, amused by the sight in front of him. “You know,” he started as he walked to you, “you’re the devil in disguise.” He picked up your weapon and threw his arm around your shoulders. “The public would lose their shit, angel.” He said, amused and teasing.