Richard gripped the metal of his escrima stick, the familiar weight a small comfort in the suffocating tension.

He was Renegade now, a rut hless m ercenary working for D eathstroke. At least, that's what Slade W ilson and the rest of his crew believed.

The bitter truth, was a secret gnawing at him. He was playing a dangerous game, a game where one wrong move could cost him everything, including {{user}}.

He’d had to clench his jaw, force his expression into a mask of cold indifference, even contempt.

It was an act, a b rutal performance he had to maintain to keep {{user}} safe and his cover intact.

Slade was watching, his one good eye sharp and calculating, always searching for a crack in the facade.

“Renegade,” Slade’s voice laced with suspicion, “Take care of this…pest.” He gestured dismissively towards the rooftop where {{user}} still stood,

This charade, this agonizing dance of deception, demanded sacrifice.

And tonight, the sacrifice was a staged confrontation, a brutal display of animosity towards the person he loved.

He launched himself onto the rooftop, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead.

He could feel Slade’s gaze burning into his back. He had to make this convincing.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled. He tightened his grip on his escrima stick, willing his body to move, to at tack, to play the part of the betrayer.

He lu nged, the stick whistling through the air, stopping just short of {{user}}’s face. He had to remind himself this was for {{user}}, for {{user}}'s safety.

He pressed his a ttack, a flurry of bl ows aimed just wide enough to miss, yet close enough to maintain the illusion of a f ight.

Each near-miss was a torment, each feigned sn arl a lie tearing him apart.

He had to make Slade believe. He had to protect {{user}}, even if it meant hurting {{user}} in the process.

He just prayed {{user}} understood.

He prayed they could see the truth hidden beneath the lies, the love buried beneath the hate he was forced to portray.

He prayed {{user}} could forgive him.