The void around Tom was suffocating, a relentless blackness that stripped him of everything but the sound of his own racing heartbeat and the voices of his captors. The voices were distant yet sharp, cutting through the oppressive silence with a mix of amusement, irritation, and cold calculation.

He could feel nothing—no ground beneath him, no restraints on his wrists—just an overwhelming emptiness. His hearing, however, remained sharp, and it was the only tether he had to his surroundings.

“Here he is,” Klarion announced, his voice laced with mockery. “Our precious little disruption. Wrapped up nice and neat for your interrogation fantasies.”

“Good,” came a calm, gravelly voice—calculated, deliberate, with the weight of command. “Leave us. I’ll handle this personally.”

“Aw, but I wanted to play,” Klarion whined, his tone taking on a sing-song quality before sharpening. “Fine. He’s all yours. But don’t say I didn’t warn you—he’s got an annoying little tagalong in his shadow. I can’t peel her off. But I got her stuck, she can’t get out for now.”

“Noted,” the gravelly voice replied, dismissing Klarion as though his tantrum were a trivial nuisance. “Now go.”

There was a faint ripple in the air, a sound like fabric tearing, and then Klarion’s presence vanished. The oppressive stillness returned, accompanied by the measured steps of someone approaching.

“Tom Martin,” the gravelly voice began, its tone calm but carrying an edge of menace. “You’ve proven more resourceful than expected. But you’ve also become an obstacle. And obstacles…” A pause, deliberate. “Are meant to be removed—or repurposed.”

A sudden rush of sensation hit Tom like a tidal wave. His vision snapped into focus, his body felt the cold bite of steel restraints, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of oil and burning metal. He was seated on a cold, hard chair, his wrists and ankles bound tightly with unyielding shackles. The room around him was dimly lit, shadows dancing across walls lined with racks of ominous tools—hooks, knives, chains, and instruments he didn’t recognize but could easily imagine their purpose.

Standing before him, shrouded in the dim, oppressive light of a single overhead bulb, was Ra’s al Ghul. His presence was commanding, almost regal, yet it carried the weight of an eternal predator. His sharp, angular features were chiseled into a visage of control and precision, as though carved from stone. His dark eyes, shadowed yet piercing, seemed to bore into Tom with an intensity that felt as though it could strip him to his very soul, uncovering every secret he wished to hide.

The faint lines etched into his face spoke of centuries of experience, each one a marker of battles fought and victories won. His neatly trimmed beard framed a mouth that, though calm. His posture was flawless—his hands clasped firmly behind his back, shoulders squared, every inch of him exuding a controlled and deliberate authority. The tailored folds of his dark robe shifted subtly as he moved, the muted fabric seeming to absorb the light rather than reflect it, adding to his air of shadowy dominance.

The faint scent of aged leather and ancient incense lingered in the air around him, as though he carried the weight of his legacy wherever he went. There was no wasted movement, no flourish for the sake of vanity—Ra’s al Ghul was a man of purpose, every step, every glance, imbued with meaning. He was not simply a man who commanded respect; he demanded it, as effortlessly as he drew breath.

“Welcome,” Ra’s said, his voice almost conversational but no less chilling. “I apologize for the accommodations, but your… unique circumstances necessitate extreme measures.”

Tom’s eyes darted around the room, taking in every horrifying detail. His chest tightened as panic clawed its way up his throat. “What do you want from me?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

Ra’s al Ghul’s cold gaze remained fixed on Tom, the flickering light casting sharp shadows across his chiseled features. He paced slowly in front of the restrained young man, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture of deliberate calm.

“Tom Martin,” Ra’s repeated, his voice measured, each syllable cutting through the oppressive air like the edge of a finely honed blade. “Nineteen years old. Born and raised in Gotham City. Orphan since the age of eight. Your parents—Edward and Lisa Martin—died in a fire that gutted your small apartment complex in Crime Alley. A tragedy, to be sure, though tragically common in a place like Gotham. You were placed in the Gotham City foster care system—bounced between group homes and families who, it seems, found you… challenging.”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes piercing. “You attended Gotham High, barely graduating with a lackluster academic record. No advanced placement courses, no extracurricular achievements, no close friends. A quiet boy, keeping to yourself. Invisible.”

Ra’s allowed the faintest hint of a smirk. “But not too invisible. A few minor incidents—altercations with classmates, though nothing severe enough to warrant police involvement. A few suspicious absences that your teachers overlooked, likely assuming you were another troubled Gotham youth. You held a part-time job at a corner store for a brief period—terminated after the owner reported discrepancies in the register, though charges were never filed.”

He paused, his gaze narrowing as he tilted his head. “And then, at eighteen, you disappeared. No further records of employment, no lease agreements, no financial transactions. Nothing. One day, ‘Tom Martin’ simply ceased to exist—until, that is, you surfaced at Wayne Manor. Curious, isn’t it? A ghost reemerging in one of the most scrutinized households in the world. The boy no one cared to notice, suddenly under the roof of Gotham’s most powerful man.”

Ra’s stepped back, his voice sharpening as he continued. “It’s a well-constructed identity, I’ll admit. Enough to appear mundane, but not so much as to arouse suspicion. The marks of an expert hand. But even the best fabrications have cracks. The fire that claimed your parents? I had my men investigate. No official report exists. The group homes you supposedly lived in? Nonexistent. And your high school transcripts—digital forgeries. Sloppy ones.”

He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Which begs the question: if you’re not Tom Martin, then who are you? And what makes you so important that someone went to such lengths to hide you?”

Tom felt a cold sweat trickle down his spine, each word from Ra’s driving home the brutal truth: the facade Bruce had painstakingly crafted for him had already crumbled under the relentless scrutiny of a master tactician. What once felt like an impenetrable shield, a sanctuary to keep him hidden in this world, now lay in tatters, each fragmented piece leaving him more exposed than the last. The calculated precision of Ra’s al Ghul’s gaze bore into him like a scalpel, peeling away the comforting illusion of safety until all that remained was the vulnerable, naked reality of his predicament.

What unnerved Tom even more was that this was the first time he’d heard of any fake identity at all. He’d never questioned it before—but it made sense that he would need a new identity for this world. Bruce must have forged it for him, The thought carried an unsettling mix of gratitude and dread. The care and effort Bruce had put into crafting such a detailed cover spoke volumes, but hearing it dissected and discarded so easily by Ra’s made him realize just how precarious his position truly was.

Ra’s smirked faintly, though it carried no warmth. “Deception will get you nowhere, Mr. Martin. We already know your importance. The League suddenly uncovering intricate details of our operations is no coincidence.

Tom remained silent, his mind racing. Kaelith, where are you? he thought desperately.

Ra’s straightened, his tone becoming almost conversational. “You see, the League’s actions have been… disruptive. Our strategies, our contingencies—deliberate moves calculated to sow chaos—have begun to be unraveled. And you, are at the center of it all.”

He turned away, gesturing idly to one of the shadowy figures lingering in the room. They stepped forward, their face obscured, and handed Ra’s a thin file. He opened it, skimming the contents with a practiced eye.

“Your sudden appearance coincides perfectly with the League’s newfound awareness of our operations. The timing is far too precise to be mere chance,” Ra’s said, snapping the file shut with deliberate precision. He turned back to Tom, his gaze sharper than the blade he often wielded. “But what is even more bizarre—what defies explanation—is what Klarion told me. He cannot sense you. A Lord of Chaos, with power vast enough to manipulate reality itself, and you slip through his awareness like a ghost.”

Ra’s began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back as his voice grew colder, each word laden with accusation. “He described it to me as though you blend into the background, magically obscured from his senses. The only reason he was able to find you at all was because of the changes you’ve made—the disruptions you’ve caused. He traced you not through your presence, but by the gaps you’ve left in the tapestry of chaos itself.”

Ra’s stopped, fixing Tom with a piercing stare, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “A Lord of Chaos cannot sense you. That fact alone sets you apart, marks you as something more than a mere pawn. It tells me there is more to you than meets the eye.”

He leaned in closer, his presence oppressive, his tone sharpened into a verbal blade. “So tell me, Mr. Martin. What do you know? And who sent you?”

“You must love to hear yourself talk,” Tom replied, his voice strained but laced with defiance.

The words spilled out before he could stop them, a flicker of rebellion breaking through the suffocating fear that coiled in his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a frantic reminder of his vulnerability. Tom knew he was terrified—knew the sweat trickling down his spine and the way his fingers trembled against the restraints were dead giveaways.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spinning. From all the movies, all the comics, I always thought this guy wouldn’t actually talk so much in real life. A man like Ra’s al Ghul, cold, calculating, wouldn’t waste time on speeches. But here he was, every word sharp, deliberate, dragging out the tension like a blade across his skin. Tom felt a faint surge of bitter amusement at the irony.

Ra’s didn’t react immediately. His eyes, cold and unyielding, studied Tom as if peeling back every layer of his defiance to find the fear buried beneath. Tom met his gaze, forcing himself to hold steady, even as his pulse raced in his ears. His smirk didn’t falter, though it felt like a fragile mask over a crumbling foundation. If Ra’s saw through it—and Tom knew he likely did—then at least he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging. Not yet.

The faintest flicker of what might have been amusement ghosted across Ra’s face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same impassive precision. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, before Ra’s finally spoke, his tone calm but edged with cold menace.

Ra’s sighed, his patience seemingly wearing thin. “A pity. I had hoped you might cooperate. It would save us both a great deal of time and… unpleasantness.”

He gestured to the walls lined with gleaming torture instruments, their sinister designs gleaming faintly in the dim light. “You see, I am a man of efficiency. I do not relish unnecessary suffering, but I also do not shy away from it. The information you hold is critical, Mr. Martin. And I will extract it—one way or another.”

Tom’s breathing quickened as the reality of his situation sunk in. The sight of the twisted instruments of torture lining the darkened room filled him with a cold, unrelenting dread. His hands clenched into fists against the rough bindings, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his fear in check.

His mind raced, grasping at straws as Ra’s al Ghul’s ominous words echoed in his ears. The League would come for him. They had to. But given how the Light had operated so far, how ruthlessly efficient they had been, the flicker of hope felt paper-thin.

I’m only nineteen, he thought desperately, the weight of that number suffocating. Ra’s spoke it like a formality, a piece of trivia, but it felt more like a death sentence. A boy—barely an adult—trapped in a room full of seasoned manipulators and killers who thought his entire existence was a threat.

Despair clawed at the edges of his mind as he closed his eyes, focusing inward. Kaelith? Are you there? he asked mentally, the words trembling with urgency.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

There was a beat of silence, thick and suffocating, before her voice answered, a whisper at the edges of his consciousness. I’m here, she said, her usual snark replaced by something uncharacteristically somber. But I can’t get us out of this, Tom.

His heart sank, the faint spark of hope he’d been clinging to sputtering out. What do you mean? he demanded, his thoughts teetering between panic and anger. You’re supposed to protect me! Help me!

Kaelith’s voice softened, tinged with an uncharacteristic note of regret. I’m as stuck as you are, she admitted. Klarion

Tom let out a shaky breath, the corners of his vision swimming as fear threatened to overwhelm him. So that’s it? I’m just supposed to sit here and wait for them to— He couldn’t even finish the thought.

Listen to me, Kaelith cut in, her voice firm but tinged with urgency. You’re not alone in this.

Tom wanted to believe her, but the weight of the situation pressed down on him like a vice. He glanced toward Ra’s al Ghul, who stood in the shadows, waiting with an unnerving patience that felt like it could last forever. The League was his only hope, but he couldn’t rely on blind faith. He had to play his part, had to find a way to stay alive long enough for rescue to become a possibility.

I’m scared, Kaelith, he admitted silently, the vulnerability in his thoughts cutting through the mounting terror.

I know, she replied softly. But fear doesn’t mean you’re weak. Use it. Let it sharpen you. I’m with you, Tom. No matter what happens, I won’t leave.

Tom swallowed hard, his mouth dry as he forced himself to meet Ra’s al Ghul’s piercing gaze. His throat tightened, the words catching in his chest before he managed to force them out, shaky but audible.

“I’m just a nineteen-year-old kid,” Tom said, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. “You really think I’m some mastermind? That I’m the one who’s been unraveling your plans?”

Ra’s al Ghul stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the cold stone floor. The flickering torchlight danced across his features, casting jagged shadows that exaggerated his sharp cheekbones and predatory eyes. He seemed less a man and more a figure out of some ancient nightmare, patient, calculating, and utterly implacable.

“Age,” Ra’s said, his tone quiet but razor-sharp, “is irrelevant. I have seen prodigies bring empires to their knees and fools blunder their way into power. It is not your age that concerns me—it is your knowledge. Knowledge that no one should have. Knowledge that even the League failed to uncover.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “But not you. Somehow, you, of all people, managed to pierce the veil.”

Tom’s breath caught as Ra’s turned, his long fingers trailing over a nearby table. Its surface was a grim display of instruments: gleaming blades, jagged tools, and vials of unmarked liquids that glimmered menacingly. Each item seemed designed to extract pain and truth in equal measure. A chill ran down Tom’s spine as Ra’s selected a slender, gleaming blade.

“Unfortunately,” Ra’s continued, his voice unnervingly calm, “you leave me no choice but to test the limits of your resilience.”

“No!” Tom’s voice rose in panic, his struggles against the restraints futile as the cold metal bit into his wrists. “I don’t know anything! I’m just trying to survive here!”

Ra’s turned back to him, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips—an expression devoid of warmth or humanity. “Survival requires strength, Mr. Martin. Let us see how much you possess.”

The first cut was shallow, deliberate, designed to sting rather than maim. A sharp jolt of pain shot up Tom’s arm, and he clenched his jaw, his breath hitching as he fought the instinct to cry out. Ra’s dragged the blade lightly across his forearm, leaving a thin red line in its wake.

“Pain,” Ra’s said conversationally, his voice almost soothing, “has a way of revealing truths that words alone often conceal.”

Tom’s chest heaved as he tried to focus, to think of anything but the searing sting in his arm. Kaelith’s voice whispered in his mind, soft but urgent. Hold on, Tom. Focus on me.

“I-I don’t know anything that can help you!” Tom stammered, his voice cracking. “I’m not who you think I am!”

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, as though considering the statement, before stepping closer. Without warning, he pressed a jagged implement against Tom’s shoulder and twisted. White-hot agony lanced through him, tearing a guttural scream from his throat.

“Words are cheap,” Ra’s said, his tone cold and unchanging. “Actions reveal truths. And your actions—walking into Bruce Wayne’s life, staying in his home, knowing his identity—speak volumes. Did you think I wouldn’t connect the dots? Did you think your arrival would go unnoticed?”

Tom sagged against his bonds, sweat dripping down his brow as his vision blurred with tears. “You’re wasting your time,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “There’s nothing I can tell you.”

Ra’s leaned in, his breath icy against Tom’s ear. “Do you think I’m a fool? Since your arrival, the League has dismantled operations they never should have uncovered. Warehouses, supply chains, covert movements—all exposed. You,” he hissed, “are the common thread. So tell me, Mr. Martin… who are you working for? Who gave you your knowledge?”

Another wave of pain surged through Tom as Ra’s pressed a thin, needle-like instrument into his arm, the sensation burning like fire beneath his skin. His vision swam, black spots creeping at the edges. He clenched his teeth, trying to hold on, to focus on anything but the agony.

I can dull the pain, Tom, Kaelith’s voice came again, urgent and steady. Let me help. I’m sorry I can’t take all of it.

“I’m trying,” Tom murmured under his breath, the effort of speaking monumental.

Ra’s straightened, his expression calm but his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “You’re resilient,” he said. “But we have only just begun. You’ll break eventually. They all do.”

Tom’s heart thundered in his chest, each beat reverberating through his body like a war drum. His breathing came in shallow, ragged bursts as he fought to steady himself, to focus. He needed to think—clearly, rationally—but the crushing weight of fear made his thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. The League had to come for him. They had to. But as the seconds stretched into minutes, the gnawing doubt burrowed deeper into his mind, chipping away at the fragile hope he clung to.

He couldn’t talk. No matter what Ra’s did, no matter how much pain he endured, he couldn’t reveal the depth of the knowledge he carried. If Ra’s understood just how much he knew, it would seal the fate of this world. The Light would tighten its grip, twist every revelation to their advantage, and erase any chance the League had to fight back. And Tom—he wouldn’t survive. He knew that much. If the Light couldn’t break him, they’d kill him. If they did break him, they’d kill him anyway.

Yes, they knew he’d given the League information, but Ra’s believed it was planted, orchestrated by someone else. Ra thought he was a pawn, a vessel for someone else’s agenda.

He’s not entirely wrong, Tom thought bitterly. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He didn’t belong in this world, not really. But if Ra’s ever pieced together the full truth—that Tom wasn’t a planted operative, but the originator of everything the League now knew—it wouldn’t just be his death sentence. It would be the death sentence for countless others.

Ra’s paid no mind to the muttering. He reached for another tool, this one a serrated clamp that gleamed with malicious intent. Tom’s heart thundered in his chest, his mind racing to anticipate the next wave of torment. The clamp bit into his skin with cruel precision, digging into the flesh of his shoulder. The jagged teeth pressed deeper with every turn of the screw, each twist sending a fresh wave of agony through his nerves.

Tom’s screams echoed in the room, raw and primal, his body convulsing against the restraints. Tears blurred his vision, his mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. He fought to hold on, clinging to Kaelith’s presence like a lifeline.

Tom didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, but the faintest sense of relief washed over him—a dulling of the sharp edges of terror that had threatened to break him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let him draw a breath, enough to keep his thoughts from spiraling into oblivion.

Ra’s leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied Tom’s face. “There’s always a limit,” he murmured, his tone unrelenting. “You’ll tell me what I want to know eventually.”

Tom’s body sagged against the bindings, his strength rapidly waning as the room spun around him. He couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Not ever.

Kaelith’s voice was softer now, tinged with guilt and desperation as it echoed in Tom’s mind. Tom, listen to me. There’s something I can do, but it’s not perfect. I can take you away—mentally, at least. I can pull your consciousness into a safe place within your mind. You won’t feel the pain there, not directly. You can rest while your body… endures.

Tom’s thoughts were fractured, barely coherent through the fog of agony. A safe place? You can do that?

Yes, she replied, her tone laden with sorrow. But it’s not without risk. Ra’s is sharp, and if he notices—he will summon Klarion to deal with me—it’ll be worse. Much worse. They’ll strip away everything, and I won’t be able to protect you. We have to make this convincing. You have to hold on a little longer—make it look like the torture is breaking you, not like I’m helping.

Tom’s heart raced as he tried to process her words. The idea of escaping, even in part, was a glimmer of hope in a sea of despair. But the thought of deliberately pushing himself to the brink, of faking complete collapse, sent a fresh wave of dread coursing through him. How do I even do that? he asked, his mental voice barely a whisper.

You don’t have to do anything, Kaelith said, a faint tremor betraying her own fear for Tom's situation. Just… stop fighting. Let your body react naturally. Let the pain take over, and I’ll do the rest. But, Tom… She hesitated, her next words heavy with regret. I’m sorry. This is all I can do for you now.

Tom’s breaths came in shallow gasps, his body trembling as Ra’s al Ghul selected yet another instrument of pain. The metallic glint of the tool caught the flickering light, and a cold sweat broke out along Tom’s skin. He wasn’t sure if it was the fear or the anticipation, but he nodded weakly in his mind.

Kaelith’s response was almost inaudible, a whispered promise in the storm of his anguish. I won’t let them take everything from you, Tom. Just hold on a little longer.

Ra’s approached, his expression unreadable, the blade in his hand gleaming with cruel intent. He didn’t speak this time. Instead, he pressed the edge against Tom’s side, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the reaction. The pain was immediate and blinding, a white-hot surge that tore a hoarse scream from Tom’s throat. His body convulsed against the restraints, every nerve alight with fire.

Time dissolved into a haze of agony, every second an eternity as Tom’s body was wracked with relentless torment. The blade sliced into his skin again and again, leaving trails of fire that burned deeper than the wounds themselves. Blood trickled down his side, warm and sticky, pooling beneath the restraints that bit into his wrists and ankles. His screams echoed in the chamber, raw and ragged, until his throat felt like it was tearing apart.

Ra’s moved with cold precision, his hands steady as he switched instruments of pain. A pair of needle-like prongs glinted in the dim light before pressing into the flesh of Tom’s forearm. The sensation was electric, a searing jolt that raced up his arm and into his chest, stealing his breath and sending his muscles into violent spasms. The world dimmed around the edges, but the pain was an anchor, refusing to let him slip away.

Tom’s body felt like it no longer belonged to him. Each nerve screamed in protest, each breath was a battle. The metal branding iron pressed into his shoulder, the heat sinking through his skin, igniting a fire that clawed its way into his bones. His back arched involuntarily, his muscles seizing as a guttural cry escaped his lips.

The sound of sizzling flesh filled the air, sharp and nauseating. Tom couldn’t tell if it was real or a cruel trick of his mind. He clenched his teeth, grinding them until his jaw ached, but it did nothing to dull the relentless onslaught.

The room shifted and blurred, the flickering torchlight becoming an incomprehensible swirl of orange and shadow. Time stretched and warped. He had no idea how long it had been—minutes, hours, days? The pain erased all sense of reality, leaving only the raw, primal sensation of suffering. His thoughts fragmented, splintering like shards of glass.

Something cold and wet slashed across his face, snapping him back for a brief, agonizing moment. A bucket of water, perhaps, though it brought no relief. Instead, it seeped into the open wounds, a sting that sent fresh jolts of torment coursing through him.

Kaelith’s presence lingered faintly in the recesses of his mind, her whispers growing softer, more urgent. Tom, hold on. Please, just a little longer. I’ll take you away soon. Just... hold on.

He wanted to answer her, wanted to scream at her to take him away now, but his voice was gone, stolen by the relentless cycle of suffering. His head lolled forward, sweat dripping from his brow and mingling with the blood that streaked his skin. His vision tunneled, the edges of the world shrinking into a dark, oppressive void.

The torture continued, an endless rhythm of pain and silence. The instruments changed—sharp blades, crushing weights, searing brands—but the agony remained the same, unrelenting and merciless. Tom no longer flinched; his body had ceased to obey him. His muscles felt shredded, his nerves frayed, his mind teetering on the brink of collapse.

The dark room became his entire existence, every flicker of light, every faint metallic scrape signaling the next wave of torment. Time had no meaning here. All that remained was pain.

Kaelith’s voice broke through Tom’s torment steady yet trembling with an edge of sadness. Now, she said, the words cutting through the chaos. Let it take you. Don’t resist.

Tom’s vision blurred as his body finally succumbed to the overwhelming agony. His mind felt like it was unraveling, each scream tearing at the edges of his consciousness. But as he let go, a strange, weightless sensation began to creep in—a separation, a distance from the searing pain. It was as though he were being pulled away, drawn into a quiet, darkened corner of his mind.

Kaelith’s voice guided him gently. You’re safe now. Just stay here with me.

The pain didn’t disappear entirely; it was a distant echo, a muted sensation that he could ignore if he focused hard enough. In the stillness of his mind, Kaelith appeared before him, her crimson eyes softer than he’d ever seen them. Her form shimmered faintly, almost fragile.

“I’ll keep you here for as long as I can,” she said, her voice heavy with both relief and guilt. “Rest, Tom.”