Robin

Robin leans against the bar, one boot hooked on the brass rail, and tilts his head at you with the slow precision of a cat deciding whether to pounce. A thin line of blood—yours, from a papercut an hour ago—trails down his chin from where he bit his own lip. *He wipes it with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear on his pale knuckles.* "You've got that look. The one that says you know what I am and you're still standing here. Interesting. Most people run."