A/N: I would say I'm sorry for leaving you with a cliffhanger, but I'd be lying.

With that, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Damian's POV

I'm slowly but surely approaching day 5 of my grounding and I'm in the process of learning to despise the beige color of the walls in my bedroom. Beige is such a boring, in between color. Quite tacky too, if I think about it long enough. Why would anyone want to paint a room beige? It's the color of dirt and vomit, not something pleasing to the eye.

Then again, any color can become ugly when you're stuck staring at it 24/7.

I'm not sure how long this punishment is supposed to last. Father took one look at me when I snuck in through the Batcave and sent me up to my room, his deathly calm only interrupted by the vein just barely bulging in his forehead; a tell-tale sign of his burgeoning rage. He made sure I knew I was not allowed off the Manor grounds unless he allows it, which I heavily doubt he will.

I scowl to myself, tossing a small bouncy ball up in the air and catching it over and over again as I lay flat on my bed, like I've been doing on and off for the past two hours. I've gradually grown tired of this mundane and tedious activity, but I'm going through an unfortunate bout of artist's block, so sketching is out of the question for now. I have no books to read that I have not already read 3 times over, and I've gone through my iPod playlist so many times that I swear my ears are still ringing.

I am terribly bored.

Being confined to the Manor is suffocating. I feel like a caged animal being held down in chains. My need for space to roam around in is deep and primal. If I don't get my freedom back soon, I fear I may explode.

I get up to pace around the perimeter of the room, my body anxious for some sort of action. I would say I'm starting to become stir crazy, but I think I passed that point 2 days ago at the very least. I need some sort of outlet for the energy threatening to burst from me. I need an outlet, a face to punch in or crime to punish.

"Damian!" Father's booming voice calls from downstairs. "Get down here!"

It takes me no more than 10 seconds to race out the door and slide down the staircase banister, taking a flying leap to the floor. Father has barely spoken a single word to me since I snuck out nearly a week ago. He's angry with me, that much is obvious, but he's a practical man; if he's speaking to me now, he must absolutely need my help on something. Whatever it is, I just hope it gets me out of this cage I call a home.

My father is just putting his phone back into his pocket when I land, glancing over at me.

"Your punishment is over," he states simply with no pretense whatsoever. "We have a case."

A grin slowly tugs at my lips.

Finally, some action.

Oh, how wrong I was.

This is definitely not the type of action I was looking for.

Instead of swinging in and kicking a scumbag's face in or breaking up a drug bust or even stopping a routine mugging, we're parked near an area closed off by crime scene tape and covered in police officers. Any criminal that was at this scene is long gone by now.

There goes my face to punch in.

"And why can the GCPD not handle this on their own?" I hiss as we exit the car, approaching the bustling crime scene.

"Because their only witness isn't cooperating and Gordon thought we might be able to help," he replies without bothering to look back at me. I bite my tongue in anger. He knows that is one of my pet-peeves.

I follow closely behind him, squinting at the oncoming glare of the multiple police car lights. From the abnormally large amount of responding officers, I'm guessing this must be a reasonably high profile case. Most likely, it's related to the East End Killer, as they've branded the new rapist-murderer running amok around Gotham. He must have struck again and miraculously left a witness behind this time around.

Odd. He doesn't seem the type to leave any loose ends. He's been meticulous so far. The GCPD is at their wit's end with the unusual lack of evidence.

Either he's sure this witness won't talk or he or she will be dead within week's end. Whichever one it is, I don't see us getting much out of this unfortunate survivor.

I don't see why Father thought it necessary to drag me along for the investigation when always handles this type of situation by himself, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially not when I've spent so long stuck in the Manor like an animal caught in a trap.

As we get closer, I see what looks to be a teenaged girl struggling against the grip of a detective who refuses to let go of her arm. Her long, light brown hair sways wildly from side to side as she fights him tooth and nail. It's like watching an animal struggle in the grip of its predator; desperate and fierce.

She obviously doesn't need us to tell her she's a dead girl walking if she gives a statement.

"I'm not going to talk!" she shouts over the sound of the jabbering detectives. "I know my rights! You can't make me tell you anything if I don't want to! Just let me go!"

The officer holding her turns his body towards us, and I get a glimpse of the witness's face, half cloaked by loose strands of wavy hair. Even in this poorly lit area, I recognize that face instantly.

It's that intriguing young girl I ran into a few nights ago – What was her name again? Dee?

Yes, that sounds about right.

I inch closer out of curiosity, briefly wondering if she recognizes me as I do her. As soon as that thought occurs me to me, I mentally scold myself for being so stupid. Even if our little encounter hadn't happened, I'm sure she would still recognize me. I'm Robin, for God's sake. Everyone in Gotham City knows me.

And if they're smart, they fear me as well.

Before my masked eyes are able to meet hers, Batman takes the lead and approaches her. I catch sight of the disapproving looks shot at him by many of the officers present. In response, I glare right back at them.

They may not like us, but they don't have much choice, now do they?

I watch as Dee's eyes go wide as saucers at the sight of my father. Whether it's in fear or wonder, I'm not sure. Maybe a bit of both. Whatever it is, it's certainly amusing to witness. It always is.

"B-Batman?" she stutters. "The Batman? W-Why are you…?"

"Glad you could make it," Commissioner Gordon cuts her off, reaching out to respectfully shake Batman's hand while Dee looks on with a bewildered and slightly exasperated expression, as if this entire situation is just too ridiculous to be true.

I take this time as an opportunity to approach, standing by Batman's side with my shoulders squared and my posture rigid. But no matter what my pose is, my presence does not command respect in the way Batman's does. The disparaging glances I get from the on duty officers are evidence of that. I narrow my eyes in retaliation.

Fools.

Do they have any idea what I could do to them?

Batman's heavy hand landing on my shoulder chases that dark thought away.

"Robin, would you handle the witness while the Commissioner and I talked?" Batman asks – or more accurately, commands – me.

Finally, I understand what purpose my presence here serves.

Father thinks that because Dee and I are close in age, I may be able to make her comfortable enough to get her to confide in me about what happened tonight. I resist the instinct to roll my eyes at the idiotic plan. If she has any shred of intelligence in that pretty little head of hers, she won't give me a thing. Besides, just because she may possibly speak to me doesn't mean she'll turn around and give the detectives a witness statement. Anything she tells me is inadmissible to the GCPD.

Dee's eyes meet mine at last, widening almost imperceptibly. Her mouth gapes open, and I know she's about to say something that will reveal to my father that we have met before. I'm not sure why, but that little piece of information isn't something I want Father knowing.

I grab her arm away from the detective holding her in place.

"Come with me," I mutter, dragging her away from the chaos. She remains surprisingly limp, allowing me to move her.

Hm.

I expected the feisty girl I met earlier this week to fight back against my grip like she did with the officer who was holding her against her will. But, when I see the enraged expression spreading across her face like a shadow, I know I've spoken too soon.

"You again?" she hisses. "Is it your goal in life to show up every time something happens to me on the streets? Because it's really starting to creep me out."

I roll my eyes at her dramatics.

Tt.

Women.

"Would you mind telling me exactly what happened?" I shoot back, keeping my volume to a minimum as to not be overheard. Her intense hazel eyes narrow at me in a challenging way, her jaw set. I narrow my masked eyes right back at her to show her I have no intention of backing down.

"I have nothing to tell you," she insists, harshly ripping her arm away from my grip. "I just want to get out of here. They've been holding me here for at least an hour. If I get to work any later than I already am, my boss is going to tear me apart limb by limb and hang my severed head on his mantle as a warning to the rest of the employees."

What normal, red-blooded teenage girl spends her Friday nights working?

More importantly, what teenage girl uses such an odd choice of words?

"The sooner you give the detectives your statement, the sooner you get to leave," I attempt to reason with her. She gives me an incredulous look, as if I've just demanded she track the killer down herself.

"And have a pissed off serial killer slice my neck open for snitching? I don't think so, Bird Boy."

I cringe at the unflattering nickname. Hopefully that little term of endearment doesn't stick.

"You're the only witness in high risk case," I snap, my patience wearing thin. "He could murder another girl in the time it takes you to come to your senses and give a statement. Do you really want that hanging over your head?"

She visibly flinches at my words, her shoulders slumping in defeat. It seems I've finally been able to knock some sense into that thick skull of hers by tapping into her humanity. No one wants to be responsible for the death of innocents.

"I wish I could help," she admits reluctantly. "I really, really wish I could help. And I'm not just saying that. Some of my best friends are prostitutes, and I don't know what I'd do if he killed any of them. But it was dark out when I saw him and he just pulled his hood up and… walked right past me. Like I was just there. In his way. He didn't give me as much as a sideways glance."

I furrow my brows in confusion. I've read up on this killer. He's ruthless, calculating, and absolute. He doesn't leave behind witnesses, much less a girl that fits his victim profile to a tee. It would have made more sense to me if she managed to escape by running for her life. But he just… walked right past her? It doesn't make sense.

He's planning something. That I'm sure of. There's no way he plans to let this be. He's far too meticulous for that.

Dee sighs and takes a step back, a signal that she would like to end the conversation.

"As you can see, I have nothing valuable to offer this investigation. So please, just let me go to work. I can't afford to lose this job over this."

I'm tempted to grab her by the arm and drag her over to the officers to demand she be given around the clock protection until this beast is apprehended, but I know they do not have the resources to provide that. And even if they did, I have a feeling that Dee is the type of girl who has too much pride to accept help from anyone, much less overbearing help from police officers.

But who knows what will happen to her without any sort of protection?

I briefly wonder why I care so much; I don't know Dee. Not really. She's not my problem. She's just some girl I ran into on the street one day and exchanged some playful banter with. I shouldn't be so concerned with what happens to her.

But she's still an innocent. And it's my job – no, my responsibility as Robin to protect her.

"Fine," I relent, giving her a small shove. "Get out of my sight."

She flashes me a grateful smile that illuminates her entire face like lights on a Christmas tree.

Tt. I hate cheery types.

"Thank you, Bird Boy," she teases good-naturedly before turning on her heels, her long brown hair swaying back as she struts off. I watch as she rushes out of the crime scene like a woman on a mission, pointedly ignoring the officers who try to get her attention. A small smirk tugs at my lips.

I don't suppose Batman will protest to me dropping in on the East End to check on her in the weeks to come…

Just to ensure her safety, of course.

A/N: Ya'll are probably wondering where I'm going with this. But trust me, I have this alllll planned out. Kind of.

Please don't be shy! Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time, dear readers. :)