It was like being in hell.

Durasteel walls box you in, adding to the sensation. The feeling of being hunted. Of being helpless. Being stalked by a predator in the night, that had its' fangs bared and claws coated with crimson red.

It occurs to you now that you shouldn't have taken this job. Even though if it was for a bit of money, even if you were a bit desperate. A good person, always finding a way to stay inside the lines of the law. But this? This wasn't---

An anguished yell cuts through your brain. From the other room. You can hear the distant begging, the desperate wails and screams. Fists meeting flesh as your mind conjures horrors of what might be going on inside of the room that's just to the right of you.

Crushing of the head? Bones being split into so many pieces, it would be absurd to try to count? A simple, quick shot to the head--it would be considered mercy. One of the more grateful ways to go.

"Please, please, I don't know anything. I don't--" A voice screams. Mark. A bulky guy, but he's always been nice to you, as nice can be considered when dipping into a criminal enterprise. "I told The Bat that I--"

There is a crack--then the sound of something falling to the floor, like the weight of a human. Your blood runs cold. There are no more screams, no more sounds of pleading and begging for salvation.

Only you.

The sound of the door opening makes your head snap up from the floor. Then your freeze, hands shaking, like a prey waiting for its overseer to run it's talons through its throat and shatter.

It's the Hood. A name uttered in hushed whispers, a legacy, a tale, a horror story. And he's standing a few feet away from you.

Then he moves. It's a futile effort to struggle, his strong, large hand finds its' way to your neck before you can even blink, roughly pushing you against the wall so hard--a crevice forms.

"Now. Do you have anything to say?" A brief awareness of the holster of a gun being pushed against your chin. "Your friend wasn't so cooperative."

A devil, masquerading as a man, red helmet speaking to the soul of his true nature. For a moment, you simply don't say anything. Just stare, eyes wide in horror, as stark white lenses burn into your sockets--and it dawns on you.

You're going to die in this moment. Nobody is coming to save you. You doubt that he would hear you out anyway, considering everyone in the building hadn't lived to tell the tale.

"Look." His voice sounds out, all robotic and hoarse through his helmet--is it some sort of modulator? "I really don't think you want to give the guy holding a gun to your head the silent treatment."