The acrid smell of the gas hits me before I can react. One second I'm slamming the criminal against the ground, the next my vision blurs and my throat burns. I feel it instantly—a foreign presence invading my mind, cold and calculating.

"Got him," I grunt, yanking the gun from his jacket. But even as I speak, something inside me shifts.

The man bites down on something in his mouth, and suddenly the gas is everywhere. I punch him unconscious, but the damage is done. The world swims around me as I call for backup.

"Nightwing, report!" Bruce's voice crackles over the comms.

"I was hit with something," I manage through coughing fits. "Some kind of gas." My tongue feels thick, my thoughts suddenly muddled.

Damian appears at my side, already scanning me with a portable analyzer. "Stay back, Robin," I warn, but there's no real strength in my voice.

By the time Bruce arrives, I'm fighting to stay upright. The ride back to the cave is a haze of blurred images and sounds. I can feel Damian's worried gaze on me the entire time.

They strap me to a med bay bed as soon as we arrive. Alfred takes blood samples while Bruce hovers nearby, his expression grim. I want to tell them I'm fine, but the words won't come out right.

And then it hits me—the first wave of pure, unadulterated hatred.

It's not my own. This rage belongs to something else, something inside me now. The crime scene photos flash through my mind unbidden—blood-soaked rooms, broken bodies, families destroyed.

"Dick?" Bruce's voice sounds far away.

Kill. The thought comes unbidden, clear and sharp.

"Grayson!" Damian's yell cuts through the fog.

I jerk back, eyes wide. My chest heaves as I stare at my hands, suddenly terrified of what they might do. The hate simmers just below the surface, waiting for me to slip up.

It's already too late to stop what's coming.