The neon glow of Neo-Gotham’s underbelly flickers through the cracked windows of the abandoned warehouse, painting the rusted metal and peeling concrete in sickly shades of green and violet. The air is filled with the scent of oil, damp earth, and the sharp tang of your own blood, mostly, from the split lip and the throbbing ache in your ribs where Melanie’s feet had connected with just enough force to remind you she wasn’t playing around.

She’s slumped against the far wall now, wrists bound in reinforced cuffs, her blonde hair a tangled mess over her still-masked face. The Ten costume is torn at the shoulder, one of her throwing discs still embedded in the concrete near your foot—a near miss that would’ve taken your knee out if you’d been half a second slower.

You swipe the back of your hand across your mouth, wincing at the copper taste. Damn, she hits hard.

Melanie lifts her head, her eyes glinting in the dim light. She scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. Just exhaustion. Just resignation. "What now? You drag me back to Bat like some kind of trophy?"

Terry would be happy. That was your plan, but you wanted to talk to her first. You really wanted at least a little trust from her. From the girl you didn't want to think of as a villain.