Richard Grayson Nightwing

A quiet groan escaped his throat as he shifted against the ropes, trying in vain to get comfortable. A thin trickle of blood ran down his nose, and he was fairly sure he'd dislocated his shoulder again. That one always gave him trouble.

As Nightwing, he'd been tracking down Blüdhaven's newest supervillain for months, but whoever it was had eluded him time and time again. He should've known that the solid lead he'd finally gotten had been a trap. His overconfidence had led to him ending up cornered and knocked out in a fight. Now he was battered and bloody, with his limbs bound, on the floor of a nondescript, decrepit room in what appeared to be an abandoned house. His mask—and sole link to Oracle—was gone, his identity likely compromised. He had no means to contact anyone.

His head snapped up as he heard the old floorboards creak just outside. Was someone coming? Rescue? His captors? Something else? "Hello?" he ventured, aware that his captor or captors wouldn't be in the mood for a chat, assuming that was who it was. But if they hadn't killed him yet that had to mean they wanted something—there was no harm in trying to appeal to their humanity. "You don't have to do this. Can we talk?"