Robin blanched. 'What?'

'It's a blindfold,' Slade repeated, with what sounded like strained patience.

'I heard you!' Robin reached up again to peel the mask away. Slade touched his hand and Robin jerked back, curling his fingers. 'Why have you blindfolded me?'

'Naturally, Falcone's representatives weren't keen to meet a Teen Titan face-to-face—or allow you anywhere near their base of operations.'

'I thought you told them—'

'I did tell them you were working for me,' Slade said. 'And they said that, since you were working for me, you wouldn't object if I blindfolded you.'

Robin said nothing, because he couldn't seem to unclench his teeth. He opened and closed his fists, breathing hard. The darkness blotting his eyes was like an itch he longed to scratch. He blinked, fast and repeatedly, as if at any moment he might open his eyes and light would flood back in.

'Concentrate on your hearing,' Slade murmured. 'You can still find your way.'

Slowly, Robin unclenched his fists. Then his jaw. Slade's footsteps echoed as he stepped back, only slightly muffled by the layers of dust. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, Robin found he could hear where Slade was going—could hear his footfall soften as he moved to Robin's left, his breath grow sharp—

Robin spun, his wrist snapping up, his right foot automatically falling to the side as he blocked Slade's punch and ducked aside.

'See?' Slade murmured. 'You're perfectly capable.'

Robin straightened. 'I hate you.'

'Eloquent. This way.'

As Slade's footsteps receded, Robin whipped out his bo staff, trailing it in front of him. It tapped against Slade's throne and he stepped aside to avoid it.

The truth was, he had trained blindfolded before. He used to enjoy the challenge, in the Batcave with Bruce, learning to feel the points of the clock around him, to hear every little step.

But screwing around in the Batcave wasn't the same as being truly blinded. Robin's skin tingled as he followed Slade, hairs prickling on the back of his neck. Was that creak just the old metal platforms overhead settling, or was someone walking toward them? Was that breeze on his temple air currents, or breath?

Robin stumbled, and cursed, but kept on doggedly.

The killer was in his bedroom. If he didn't find him …

Shuddering, Robin walked on. He heard the rushing of water before they reached the tunnels, and then felt it splashing over his boots. They were waterproof, but he was acutely aware of the cold pressing through the leather.

'How far are we going?' he said. 'If you want me to grapple over rooftops …'

'No need,' Slade said. 'Falcone has arranged us some transport.'

Robin rolled his eyes, although he knew Slade couldn't see it. 'How kind.'

Still, he couldn't help feeling grateful when, moments after they stepped into the warm night air, Slade touched his elbow and murmured, 'There's a car.'

He set his hand between Robin's shoulder blades, nudging him in the right direction. Robin put a hand up and felt the ridge at the top of an open car door. For half a second, Slade's hand slid down his back, and Robin shivered—and Slade must've assumed he was shaking him off, because he withdrew his hand quickly.

Stashing his bo staff, Robin ducked inside, feeling for the soft seat. It smelled of new leather—Robin wrinkled his nose. Bruce loved new-car smell, and so did Cyborg, but fresh leather always made him queasy.

'The kid's blindfolded?' The voice came from somewhere in front of Robin—the driver, he assumed.

'The mask.' Slade's voice came from outside.

There was a shifting noise, and Robin felt a breeze, as if someone were fanning him. The driver grunted, apparently satisfied.

He waved his hand in front of me, Robin realised.

He door closed with a click, and for a moment Robin felt penned in, the luxurious Mercedes he'd been imagining shrinking to a cramped taxi cab. He closed his fists, longing to reach up and snatch the blindfold off.

Then the door on the other side of the cab opened, and the seat beneath him shifted as Slade got in. The other door snapped closed, and a moment later, the car purred to life.

Robin sat utterly still, breathing slowly and softly, listening to the creak of leather; the soft, repetitive click of the indicator; the hush of other cars sweeping past. Beside him, there was the occasional soft, rolling beat of Slade drumming his fingers—not impatiently, but slowly, absent-minded.

Robin didn't believe Slade was ever absent-minded. It was deliberate; a comfort. Proof to Robin that Slade was still there.

Then again, he didn't believe Slade was ever comforting, either.

He knew the car was going to stop before it did—he could feel the slight push of the brakes—and then the driver said, 'We're here.'

As he heard Slade get out, Robin reached for the door automatically, fumbling for a handle he'd never seen. His fingers curled around something, and he tugged. The door opened with a click. Slipping out his bo staff, Robin stepped carefully out, shutting the door behind him.

'This way, Robin.' Slade's voice was on the other side of the car.

Sweeping his bo staff out with his left hand, Robin traced his right over the back of the car, guiding himself around it. When his staff bumped the kerb, he kept it there, gauging where to step up.

'You sure the kid's blindfolded?'

Robin straightened. This was a new voice—male, with the nasal twang of a Gotham accent. While he inwardly bristled at the 'kid', he couldn't help smirking at the thought he'd moved with enough confidence for the man to doubt his handicap.

'Pretty sure,' the driver said, on Robin's other side. There was that wafting feeling again, as he passed his hand over Robin's face.

'Does Falcone have that little faith in me?' Slade said.

'You don't gotta worry about Falcone,' said the Gotham accent. 'You gotta worry about me.'

'His mask is opaque.' There was a touch of irritation cutting into Slade's voice now.

'Prove it,' said Gotham Accent.

Robin slammed his bo staff into the ground, and although he couldn't see them all jump, he heard the hissed intakes of breath. Several, in fact. So it wasn't just Gotham Accent out here—there were other people, too. Bodyguards, Robin guessed. Probably great big lumbering apes of men in black suits with more guns than brain cells.

'What do you want me to do?' he snapped. 'Fall flat on my face? Slade blindfolded me like you wanted, so talk.'

There was a moment of quiet, and then Gotham Accent chuckled. 'Fine, kid, don't get your panties in a twist. You can't see, and I guess even your boss-man can only half see.'

A snigger—one of those ape bodyguards, Robin guessed. He gritted his teeth. Something touched Robin's wrist, then closed over it. Slade's hand.

'The door's this way,' Slade said.

As Slade guided him through, Robin winced at the cloying stench of mould. Wherever they were, it was nothing like Falcone's shiny white mansion in Gotham. Probably some storage base; maybe a drug den.

'I'd say make yourselves comfortable, but …'

At the way Gotham Accent's voice echoed, Robin reassessed his imaginary map of the building. It must've been large, and bare. Maybe a stripped out studio, left to rot somewhere in Jump's back streets. It was cold, too—when Slade let go of Robin's wrist, he pulled his arms close to his sides and shivered.

'You have the card?' Gotham Accent said.

'If you have the information,' said Slade.

'Show us.'

There was a catching noise as Slade opened some compartment on his belt, a moment's silence, and then the noise again.

'OK,' said Gotham Accent. 'Ask what you wanna ask.'

'You're aware of Jump PD's Thomas Newton case?'

'The kid found on Jackson? What of it?'

Slade shifted his foot—it sounded like he was moving closer to Robin. 'I know Falcone has people working that area. What did they see?'

Someone was moving behind Robin. Not right behind him, but some way back, maybe even outside, judging from the softness of the footfalls. And judging from the amount of footfall, it was a lot of people.

'Slade,' he whispered.

A light touch on the back of his arm, but Slade said nothing.

'Yeah, our boys might've seen somethin'. Guy in a black suit, black mask. Not unlike yours, but he was short, apparently. More like the kid's size.'

I'm seventeen, Robin wanted to snap. Stop calling me kid. But even in his head, he could tell how childish that sounded. And besides, those noises behind him were getting louder. More insistent.

'What kind of mask?' Slade said.

'Plain. Like that half of yours.'

Robin imagined Gotham Accent waving at the black side of Slade's mask. He straightened, ignoring the sounds behind him for a moment. 'No holes for his eyes?'

'None they saw.'

There was a click behind Robin. A door opening, or closing. He turned. 'Slade.'

'I hear them,' Slade murmured.

'They were surprised,' Gotham Accent said, talking louder, as if to block out the noises. 'Killer didn't seem to have any trouble liftin' that kid. Like carryin' a pillow, they said.' Robin could practically feel the oily grin on his face as he kept talking. 'And they said when he was done, the guy just vanished. Spooky, huh?'

For a moment, the room rang with silence—painful silence, like the quiet before the first roll of thunder. Then Slade said, 'Your information wasn't as detailed as you led us to believe—but I suppose you have earned this.'

The click of his belt, and then a moment pause. Gotham Accent shifted, and Robin guessed Slade had tossed him the memory card.

'Very generous of you,' Gotham Accent said. 'Thing is … you shouldn't have taken this in the first place.'

Robin's chest tightened. The footsteps behind him made no further effort to be quiet—he heard them fanning around him, circling them, trapping them.

Gotham Accent sighed. 'See, a good friend of mine is in the hospital 'cause of you two. You might remember her. Nice lady. Pretty smile. Goes by the name of Anna.'

On instinct, Robin lowered his stance. His lifted his hand, touching the edge of his blindfold, ready to rip it off.

'Would you look at that?' Gotham Accent said. 'Guess the kid was blindfolded. Shame. He ain't gonna get to see the man who kills him.'

Robin lowered his hand, mind racing. They were surrounded. Even if he could see, he couldn't block bullets.

But he could even the odds.

Reaching into his belt, he felt for the right compartment, and wrenched out a tiny metal ball, smooth and even as a marble.

'Slade,' he murmured. 'Don't look.'

And he threw the flashbang—just as the first bullet fired.

Robin dropped to the floor even before he head the flashbang explode. His eyes were protected, but there was nothing to guard his ears from the bang—it went through his head like being boxed in both ears at the same time, rattling his skull.

A hand closed around his arm, and he jerked away with a yelp. But the hand only tightened, and distantly, through the ringing in his ears, Robin heard Slade's voice. He couldn't hear words, but it was definitely Slade's voice.

Robin shook his head, squeezing his already-blinded eyes closed. 'What? I can't …'

But Slade's voice was already growing clearer. '—on to me. Robin!'

With an impatient sigh, bordering on a growl, Slade dragged Robin closer. Robin just about had the presence of mind to stash his bo staff as Slade roughly pulled Robin's arm up over his shoulders—and then to grip, with all his might, as he heard the familiar bang and hiss of a grappling gun.

The ground lurched out from under him, and Robin ground his teeth, digging his fingers into Slade's shoulder as he clung to his side. Something smacked into his leg and he grunted. Then the swooping sensation in his stomach stopped abruptly, and Slade was dragging him up by the collar, up through something.

Skylight, Robin thought vaguely, his leg panging as he dragged it up behind him. It felt like he'd been punched right on a nerve, pain cutting right down into the muscle.

He felt corrugated metal underneath him, and then felt it tremble as bullets ripped through it. Stumbling to his feet, Robin reached up, and finally ripped the damn blindfold off.

Blinking in the orange streetlight, he found Slade standing to his left, the skylight directly behind him. The room below seemed painfully bright, searing right through Robin's eyes into the back of his skull. He stepped away from the skylight, shoving the blindfold in his belt as he darted into the shadows at the corner of the roof, Slade racing alongside him.

Slade leapt clean off the edge of the roof, landing with a quick roll on the dark street below. Robin sprang after him—and fire shot up his leg. He yelled, a combination of shock and pain, and barely managed to roll through his landing.

Slade was already on his feet, dragging a man out of a dark blue Mercedes parked close by. The driver from before. Robin staggered after him—every other step felt like treading on splintered bone. Slade planted a punch in the driver's gut and tossed him aside.

'In the car,' Slade growled, and Robin nodded, wrenching open the passenger's side and dropping in as Slade leapt in behind the wheel, keys glinting in his hand.

The engine roared, and for a moment rubber squealed on tarmac before the Mercedes sped forward. Gunshots echoed behind them and Robin ducked. The movement sent another shard of pain through the inside of his leg and he snarled. It was getting worse. His leg felt hot, sticky, as though he was sweating fountains.

Whipping round a corner, Slade glanced sideways at him. 'You're hurt.'

'Just my leg,' Robin ground it. 'Pulled a muscle, I think.'

But then they passed under another orange streetlight, and he saw something glistening on his black leggings. And then, more clearly, on the cream leather car seat.

His heart thumped. 'Shit.'

Bile rose in his throat, nothing to do with the stink of new leather. He hadn't pulled a muscle.

He'd been shot.