𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, DICK GRAYSON

─ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

"Yo babydoll, can I get another round for me and my boys?" requested Frank Marquez, a middle-aged creep who spends his welfare checks on drugs, alcohol, and prostitution. He leaned against the bar counter, trying to look like a cocky bastard.

"Sure, coming right up," I pulled out a couple of beers from the cooler underneath then set them down on the counter.

Frank took this window of opportunity to brushed his callous hand against the back of my hand.

Great, I need to burn this hand with bleach now.

My jaw clenched together, holding in the disgust and the urge to bash his head against the counter. "Is there anything else I can get for you?" I asked, through my teeth.

"How about that date? Just me and you, tomorrow night," Frank winked, flashing his yellow and rotten teeth from all of the substance abuse. "We can have dinner at that French place down the street and then maybe head back to my place for some fun."

"I'm sorry, but I already made plans to have fun by myself," I replied with a poker face as he made a suggestive face, "stabbing myself a million times in the stomach and pray the Devil takes me far, far away from you."

"You'll come around. Just watch as I have you in my bed, making you scream at the top of your lungs all night long," he inappropriately expressed, smirking. He then walked away with the beer, back to his boys who are equally the same as him.

Sighing in exhaustion, I walked over to my co-worker, Dawson. He's a few years older than me and has worked here for the past five years, which I honestly don't know how he even does it since this job fucking stinks. The hours are long, the pay sucks, and the jackpot of them all—the customers are shitheads.

"Hey, I'm taking my break," I told him, untying apron on my waist, "be back in thirty."

"Before you go, can you take the trash out to the bins? Thanks," he politely asked.

"Sure." I went into the back room where the trash bags are placed near the exit. Picking them up by the red plastic string, I exited out into the cold weather then tossed the trash into the large metal container.

I remained outside for the duration of my break, leaning against the brick wall as I explored the city's current newsfeed on my cellphone. A majority of them were your typical stories—police chases, corrupt politicians, Samaritan acts, etc.

However, a particular article caught my attention.

'Detroit Mayor pleads the masked vigilante to leave the city. Vigilante justice not welcome in Detroit.'

I waited for the link to fully load before reading about last night's incident. From the CCTV footage released by the press, a guy dubbed as Robin can be seen, beating up Tyler Hackett and his goons.

Tyler Hackett. Why does that name sound so familiar?

I stopped to think before I realized that he showed up on the news, not long ago. The report was on suspected child abuse. Detroit PD booked him but was forced to drop the charges due to insufficient evidence, leaving no justice to his victim.

As I finished up reading the article, a loud clank appeared in the alleyway. My body tensed up, our of instinct, but relaxed the following second. I turned around to see four figures. "Uh, can I help you guys?" I asked, receiving no answer as they bravely approached me.