The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

I knew poking the beast would make it roar.
Roman Sionis—Black Mask, is the kind of guy who thinks fear is his birthright. Like he owns the patent on terror. His whole empire runs on intimidation, on the illusion that he's untouchable.

But illusions break easy when you kick in the front door and toss a duffel bag full of heads on the coffee table.

I made a mess.

And I know he's pissed.

Good.

Let him lose sleep. Let him scream at his boys while his empire cracks at the edges. I want him sweating. I want him jumping at every sound, every shadow. Wondering if this is the night I show up and carve his name off the Gotham food chain.

Truth is... I already started.

His dealers? Mine now. Not all of them. Yet. But enough. And the rest? They're knee-deep in fear, can't tell if the wet under their boots is piss or blood.

I'm on a rooftop in the Bowery—half a mile out from Black Mask Tower. Wind's cold. Cuts right through my jacket. It's stupid-late. That dead hour where even Gotham's monsters crawl into bed and pretend to be human.

Me? I'm just getting warmed up.

I've got eyes on his building through my scope. Top floor's still lit. He's pacing. Probably yelling at someone he'll kill in an hour.

Perfect.

I take a bite of my protein bar, chewing slow while I watch his little kingdom flicker like a dying bulb.

Down on the street, the usual scum shuffle through their routines—dealers, mules, muscleheads. Some of them used to be his. Now they're mine. They just don't know it yet. But they will.

I flip through the photos on my burner. Faces of his inner circle. Names. Schedules. Habits. All handed to me by rats Roman didn't even know were chewing through his foundation. Fear does that. Loyalty evaporates when it sees a red hood coming.

I stopped at one photo—Troy Rusk.
Mid-tier goon. Runs Roman's docks out in Baypoint. Big guy. Always talking, never thinking. Cheats on his girl with one of his own drug mules. Drives a beat-up black truck—busted taillights, cracked windshield.

Predictable.

And right on time. 2:00 AM.

Some people run on clockwork, even the scumbags.

I stashed the phone, half way zipped my jacket, and moved.

Grapple line hisses out as I glided through Gotham.

Dropped down two blocks ahead of his route and slipped into an alley and waited.
Truck rolls past, low and loud. I shot a magnetic spike under the chassis.

Tracker locked.

Then I walk.

No rush.

The night already belongs to me.
And Troy? He's about to find out what happens when you work for a man whose empire's built on fear—then meet the one bastard in this city who scares him.

We're gonna have a little…talk.

- - -

The city wind whooshed through me as I dropped from the fire escape, landing soft between two dumpsters soaked in decades of piss, rain, and whatever else Gotham's guts leak at night.

The tracker's pinging—Troy's close. Two buildings ahead, parking behind some busted old strip club with boarded-up windows and enough sketchy backdoor action to run three dirty businesses out of one location.

Classic spot. Quiet enough to make someone disappear without an audience. Sloppy enough to make a statement.

I pulled my hood up. Slipped the knuckle-dusters over my gloves. Left the pistols and blades behind tonight—this one's up close and personal.

The truck door creaked open. That heavy-metal groan of a guy clocking out after a long night, ready to do something stupid with one of his mules.

Troy Rusk.

Mid-40s. Neck like a tree trunk. Swaggers like he's bulletproof just because Roman signs his checks.

I stepped out from the shadows.

"Hey, Troy."

He froze mid-step. Half a cigar dangling from his mouth, keys still in hand.

The color drained from his face like I'd already put two rounds in his gut.

"You—Red Hood…"

"That's right."

I cracked my knuckles.

He went for his gun. Too slow.

I was on him before he cleared the holster. Yanked the weapon out and bent his fingers sideways with a wet snap.

He howled. "You broke my arm!" I tilted my head. "Nah. Just a couple fingers. Don't be dramatic."
He threw a punch with the other arm.

I caught it, crushed his wrist, then stepped in close. Elbow drove straight down between his shoulders. He dropped face-first onto the pavement with a dull thud. "Now that's your arm. I hate it when you scumbags exaggerate."
Tried to crawl. Mumbling. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a plea. Maybe both.

I pulled the crowbar from over my shoulder. Let the cold metal settle in my gloved palm like an old friend.

"Roman sent you to shake down my turf. Told you already—this area's under my protection."
He rolled onto his back, blood in his teeth, eyes wide with panic. "Please, man… let's talk."
I raised the crowbar. "This is me talking."
The first swing cracked his ribs. He screamed—high, agonizing, useless.

The second shattered his shoulder. That cut the screams down to choking. By the third, he didn't make a sound. Just twitched.

When I was done, I posed him somewhere Roman wouldn't miss.

Taped him to the hood of his own truck. Arms broken. Crowbar punched clean through his chest like a battle flag.

Spray-painted across the windshield in thick red letters. "I OWN YOUR STREETS."

- - -

The call came at 4:09 a.m.

Roman didn't like being woken up. No one fucking dared unless the world was ending.

But this? This felt like the world ending.

His phone buzzed against the side table like it had a death wish.

"Speak," he growled, half-dressed, pacing the length of his bedroom like a wolf with insomnia.

The voice on the other end stuttered. "Boss… it's Troy. We… we found him."

Roman stopped mid-step.

"Found him?"

"He's… he's dead, sir. Real dead."

That was the thing about his guys. They didn't panic easily. Not unless something really made them piss themselves.

Roman sat on the edge of the bed, one hand pressing against his forehead.

"Where?"

"Behind The Orchid. His truck was parked out back. You… you should come see this for yourself."

The call ended.

Thirty minutes later, Roman stood in front of Troy Rusk's truck, flanked by his personal guards, coat flapping behind him like a cape soaked in gasoline.

He stared.

Troy's corpse was duct-taped to the hood, blood dried and caked, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The crowbar was still embedded in his chest, his mouth stretched open like it froze mid-scream.

Roman said nothing.

Just stared.

Then his eyes moved to the windshield.

Red spray paint.

"I OWN YOUR STREETS."

Each word a slap.

His jaw clenched. His breath hissed between his teeth.

"You see that?" he whispered, voice trembling with rage. "This… this motherfucker wants to embarrass me."

No one spoke. They knew better.

Roman turned to his men, slow. Controlled. Like a man walking a tightrope above an explosion.

"I want him dead. You hear me?"

No one dared blink.

"I want his fucking bones ground into powder. I want that red mask crucified so that every goddamn dealer that even thinks of working with him, would learn not to cross me. I don't give a shit if you have to burn half the goddamn city to do it—bring me his head."

A pause. His mask tilted up to the stars above.

"And when you find him—don't shoot him. Don't kill him easily. I want him crucified and screaming for days before he dies."

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

Every empire has veins—supply routes, drop points, safe houses. Cut the right one, and you don't just bleed it. You could corner the big man.

Red Hood wasn't interested in watching Roman Sionis bleed anymore. That part was done the night he burned the man's fear tax into the pavement. Now? Now he wanted Roman choking.

It started in Old Bristol.

He was perched on the roof of a half-collapsed chapel, watching the warehouse across the street, the one supposedly condemned by the city months ago. Zoning violations. Black mold. Fire hazards. A real bureaucratic graveyard.

Didn't matter. Roman had been using the place as a front for months, moving crates of pills and military-grade weapons like it was just another Tuesday.

Tonight, it wasn't going to see another sunrise.

Red Hood dropped through the skylight, landing quiet and clean on the warehouse floor. No dramatics. No grand entrance. Just business.

Four guards inside. One by the door. Two lounging near the loading crates. One upstairs on lookout.

The guy by the door didn't even get a chance to pull his gun. Quick elbow to the throat, knife in the ribs. Done.

The two by the crates were mid-smoke when a chain looped around both their necks. Red Hood yanked hard, slamming them into the container wall. One of them tried reaching for his sidearm.

Bad move.

A boot crushed his jaw before he even got the safety off. He crumpled. The other just whimpered and slid down to the floor.

Upstairs, the lookout must've heard something. He crept halfway down the stairs, flashlight in hand, right before a throwing knife punched into his thigh.

He screamed as he tumbled the rest of the way down, crashing hard.

Red Hood dragged him behind a rusted desk and didn't waste time. One sharp twist and the guy's shoulder dislocated with a sick pop.

"Next drop point," Red Hood growled.

"I—I don't know exactly!" the guy stammered. "South Tricorner! The old rail lot! We—we just move the crates!"

He didn't get a thank you.

Red Hood shoved an explosive deep into the main stash—ammo, pills, dirty cash. Enough poison to keep Gotham rotting for years.

The explosion that followed lit up the night sky like a flare from hell. The warehouse erupted like a mushroom cloud of fire.

He was gone before the sirens started screaming.

By the end of the week, he'd hit six more.

One in Chinatown. Two by the docks. One buried deep in the Narrows. All of them gone—clean hits. He left injured survivors who bore witness to his wrath.

Roman was bleeding, yeah. But now, the bastard was gasping.

- - -


[Roman Sionis' POV]


Roman Sionis had lived through mob wars, chemical fires, a goddamn alien invasion. He'd watched the Bat dismantle half his crew with nothing but a glare and a cape.

But this?

This was personal.

Every morning brought a new insult; a destroyed shipment, a butchered crew, another lieutenant too scared to show his face.

Six supply lines. Gone. Millions in product. Burned.

The worst part? The message.

Not the blood. Not the bodies.

It was the tone.

This "Red Hood" wasn't trying to win a war.

He was after something else.

So Roman changed his approach.

He needed chaos of his own.

And chaos… he had in spades.

- - -

The meeting room at Black Mask Tower was bathed in low red light. A long table between him and the Fearsom Hand of Four.

And at the head?

Roman.

Glass of bourbon in one hand. Gold-plated revolver in the other.

"Everyone in this room wants something," he said, pacing slowly. "Money. Turf. Power. And I want one thing."

"I want the the Red Hood. This cocksucker is tearing through my empire like it's fucking drywall. He's cost me millions. Respect. Fear. You know what it means when my guys start laughing behind my back? It means I'm bleeding. And if I'm bleeding… all of you are too."

He stopped. Looked each man in the eye.

"I want him gone. Not just dead. I want him humiliated. Crippled. Screaming. Drag his guts through the East End and hang him from the Narrows Bridge like a red warning sign."

The big guy among the Fearsome Hand of Four—grinned with gold teeth. "You want him broken or buried, boss?"

Roman smiled beneath the mask. Cold and tight.

"Both. That cocksucker is a thorn at my side."

He stepped back, clinked his glass.

"Bring me his helmet. You do that, I'll make you rich enough to buy your own fucking corner of Gotham."

The room buzzed with savage excitement.

The hounds had been released.

- - -

A/N:—

Hello again, my dear readers.

I want everyone to keep in mind that his vendetta against Black Mask leads to the accomplishment of two goals—like killing two birds with a single stone.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The warehouse was the kind of place where deals got made and people went missing. Rusted beams groaned above, and broken windows let in streaks of that ugly Gotham sunset—just enough light to catch the dust floating in the air like old secrets. The place smelled like mildew, oil, and something else that probably used to be human.

Both bosses had rolled in with their muscle, ready to talk—or fight, depending on how the night played out. What they didn't expect was Red Hood interrupting the meet, for he had set it up like he did the previous one. Only that this one was on a little bit different caliber.

At first, everyone moved like they were ready to throw down. But he was already standing at the table, holding a pistol to each head—Big Lou on one side, Sophia Falcone on the other. That shut the room up fast.

"If any of you so much as twitch," Red Hood said, casual as hell, "I'll blow this fat fucker's brains out. And then I'll put another one through your boss lady's thick skull."

He clicked the hammers back. No bluff in his voice. Just ice.

"Don't test me," he said, giving a side-eye to the goons trying to figure out if they could make a move without getting their leaders killed.

"Do. Not. Test. Me," he repeated. "Remember what happened to the Bertinellis?"

Sophia's eyes narrowed. That message from the Book Keeper flashed through her mind. The warning that made her lie awake at night, clutching a pistol under her pillow.

Some of her guys shifted uncomfortably. Those who knew what happened with the Bertinellis that night, were suddenly rethinking their chances of walking out of here.

"Why?" Sophia asked through gritted teeth. "We didn't do anything to deserve a message like that."

Her voice was tight with anger, but you could hear the curiosity buried under it. Red Hood wasn't on anyone's radar until that night. Then he showed up out of nowhere, wiped out that faction of the Bertinelli crew in one night.

Unprovoked.

"Oh, that?" he said, like it was no big deal. "That was just my introduction."

Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Hell of a fucking introduction."

"That turf borders Black Mask's territory," he said, cutting to the point. "From now on, none of your guys go there to collect protection money. That area's under my protection."

"And why would I do that?" she asked, tone calm but daring. "Go along with your demands or burn? That it?"

Red Hood tilted his head slightly. "Good. So you did get my message from the Book Keep."

Big Lou looked confused as hell, clearly out of the loop. His eyes bounced between them, trying to piece it together but smart enough to keep his mouth shut for now.

"But burn?" Red Hood continued, now looking at both of them. "Nah. I'm thinking bigger. This could end just like that night—only this time, it's the heads of two cousin empires that roll."

"The Bertinellis," some guard whispered.

Big Lou scoffed. "You really expect us to believe one guy did all that?"

Red Hood didn't flinch. "Try me and find out."

As he moved slightly, his jacket shifted just enough to flash the symbol on his chest. That red-accented bat.

Big Lou went still. Then slowly turned to his crew. "Put down your guns."

Sophia gave her crew a nod too. She was still trying to decide whether he was for real, but something about him screamed don't push your luck.

Jason clocked the shift in their posture. Fear. Respect. Maybe both.

'Use one as an example, and the rest will learn,' he thought.

"Now, as I was saying—"

He didn't finish. Both pistols yanked clean out of his hands and flew across the room—no one touched them.

'What the fuck—my guns?'

Before he could react, he felt it. His limbs locked. He couldn't move. His body froze like he was being held up by something invisible. He was suspended in the air like a puppet, completely helpless, guns now pointed dead at him from all sides.

'Telekinesis? Seriously? That's what we're doing now?'

He scanned the room calmly. He'd been trained for this—keep your mind clear, even when the world's gone sideways. Whoever was doing this had to be struggling a bit. Holding a grown man up with just their mind wasn't easy.

"Thanks for coming to me," Sophia said, stepping forward through her men like she was walking on stage. "You were starting to become a real pain to find. It was like you didn't even exist. New guy, huh?"

She kept her eyes on him like a predator. "That's probably why you thought you could mess with me and the other families."

Jason's brain was racing. One of these assholes was a metahuman. But which one?

"Ice this motherfucker—"

"Hold," Sophia cut in sharply. "I want to see his face."

Red Hood turned his head slightly. "Hard pass. You're not my type."

Big Lou barked a laugh before quickly shutting up.

Sophia ignored it, eyes locked on Jason. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy torturing you. I want to see your eyes when you beg."

"Sorry, honey. I'm not into that kink."

She didn't rise to the bait. But her eyes flashed with rage.

"Kill him!" Big Lou shouted, too freaked out by that bat symbol to let this ride.

Jason's peripheral caught movement—gray suit, arm stretched. Focused look on his face.

'Gotcha.'

Then, plink—a small pellet dropped from Jason's utility belt.

A second later, smoke exploded, thick and white, filling the room.

All hell broke loose.

The gunfire lit up the fog like fireworks. Bullets tore through the air, shouts and yells echoing off the steel walls. But in the confusion, the telekinetic's grip slipped just for a second.

Jason hit the ground in a roll, snatched his crowbar mid-motion, and whipped it across the room like a fastball.

A scream cut through the chaos.

He moved through the smoke like a ghost, blade in hand, carving through anything that got in his way. Screams, gunshots, choking on blood—it all blended into a symphony of carnage.

Sophia and Big Lou huddled low, crawling for cover, unable to see through the fog that now stank of blood and gunpowder.

And then, silence.

When the smoke cleared, it looked like something out of a horror flick.

Bodies were everywhere. Chopped up. Bleeding out. The metahuman was pinned to a pillar, a crowbar through his shoulder. His head lay three feet away.

Red Hood stood in the center of the massacre, blade in one hand, pistol in the other, aimed right at the two bosses.

Big Lou and Sophia opened fire. Red Hood moved like a blur. He deflected one shot, dodged the rest, and in a blink, was up in Big Lou's face.

CRACK.

One brutal kick shattered Lou's knee. He dropped with a howl, collapsing to all fours. Red Hood pressed the blade under his chin, gun still pointed at Sophia.

"I didn't bring you two here to start a war," he said, calm as ever. "I brought you here to stop one. Your feud's starting to screw with the city."

Sophia slowly lowered her gun, keeping her eyes on him.

"That's funny," she said. "Batman said something similar a few nights ago. Only difference is—you've got a gun in my face."

Jason tilted his head. "Yeah. That's 'cause I'm not the Bat."

"No shit," Big Lou grunted, still on the ground. "You shattered my fucking knee."

"You're lucky that's all I broke," Red Hood shot back.

Sophia crossed her arms. "Fine. We'll listen. But tell me something—how long you been in Gotham?"

Jason smirked. "Since Don Carmine Falcone ran the show. I've been around. I ain't no rookie."

Big Lou cursed under his breath. "Doesn't matter. You still busted my knee, asshole."

Jason shrugged. "Could've been worse."

Sophia cut in. "So what started this mess, huh?"

Jason leaned back, guns now lowered but still ready. "You really think this all started because of one blown shipment? One torched lab?"

"She hit my shipment," Big Lou snapped.

"He blew up my lab," Sophia snapped back.

"See?" Jason raised a brow. "That's what I mean. You two are barking at each other while someone else sits back and watches."

They went quiet.

"What do you mean?" Sophia asked, wary now.

Jason holstered one pistol.

"The night the Maronis' shipment got hit at the docks? I was patrolling. Heard the boom. Got there too late, but I saw someone leaving the scene—a guy in a ski mask. Tailed him."

"And?" Big Lou pressed.

"He led me straight to Roman Sionis' front door."

The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

"You don't know what you're saying," Sophia said, her tone flat but eyes sharp.

"I do," Jason said. "That guy was a mercenary. Paid to stir the pot. Get both sides riled up, get a war going."

"But Black Mask's been doing good business with us," Sophia muttered.

"Exactly," Jason said. "You're neighbors. If you tear each other apart, guess who scoops up whatever's left?"

Their silence told him he'd hit a nerve.

"You think he's playing both sides," Big Lou said.

"I don't think," Jason replied. "I know. So you can keep playing into his hands, or we can end this before someone else ends it for you."

They didn't answer.

But the gears were turning. And that was enough.

For now.

In the brief silence, Red Hood stood in the middle of the wreckage like it was just another Thursday night in Gotham. Blood painted the floor, bodies laid out like broken furniture, and smoke still drifted in lazy swirls around the busted lights overhead. His blade was wet, his boots sticky with gore, and his voice—calm as hell.

"I called this meeting," he broke the short silence, looking from Big Lou to Sophia,
"because I found out that bastard Roman, was the one who pushed me into going after the Bertinellis… and you, Sophia."

He let that sit for a second.

"I already had your family marked as enemies. I was ready to set everything you built on fire. But now? Now I'm wondering what the hell that psycho was thinking."

Sophia narrowed her eyes, her arms crossed tight across her chest. She wasn't shocked. More like irritated—like someone had fed her a bad batch.

"Sounds exactly like him," she muttered with a scowl. "That power-hungry piece of shit."

"I'll make him pay," Lou grunted, still leaning on one of his guys who surrendered just in time to not get chopped up, cradling his busted knee. "Let's get that—"

"Hold up." Red Hood cut him off mid-sentence with a raised hand and zero hesitation. "I've got a better idea."

Sophia raised a brow. "Better than putting him in the ground?"

Jason nodded slowly. "Yeah. Something cleaner. Something that hits harder. Leave him to me. His cup's been full for a long time. Karma's knocking."

"You expect us to just let it slide?" Big Lou snapped.

"Nope," Jason said plainly. "I'm not saying forgive and forget. I'm saying let me handle it. Don't confront him. Don't threaten him. He'll play dumb. Deny it. Spin you against each other again."

He reached into his vest and pulled out two folded papers, handing one to each of them.
"Instead, do business with these guys. Four each. All pushing product out of areas near Roman's turf. They answer to me now. You sell through them, you make money, and Roman doesn't get a damn thing."

Sophia unfolded the paper and scanned it. "I know some of these names. Mid-tier pushers."
"Not anymore," Red Hood said. "I've cleaned them up. Leashed them. They know what happens if they step out of line."

"And if they do?" Big Lou asked.

"I bury 'em myself."

Sophia smirked, folding the paper back into her coat. "Why should we trust you?"

Lou chimed in, still sore in every sense. "Yeah. You blew out my fucking knee, man."

Jason gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Heat of the moment. You pulled first."

Lou muttered something under his breath, but didn't press it. The mood in the room had shifted. Not relaxed, but more... businesslike. The kind of truce criminals could live with.
Jason took a step back, looking between the two bosses.

"Just keep this quiet. Let me deal with Black Mask. You two make your money and stay out of each other's throats for now."

And just like that, he shot his grapple gun and was gone.

Big Lou stared at the spot Jason had disappeared from and let out a grunt.
"You really think we can trust him?"

Sophia pulled out a silver cigarette case and lit one, her red nails tapping the lighter. She inhaled, then spoke while exhaling smoke from her nose.

"He gave us names. Gave us a cleaner route to push product. Told us to drop Black Mask and let him deal with that psycho. If he wants revenge, fine. So long as we get our cut and no more blood on our doorstep, it's a win-win."

She passed the smoke to Lou, who took it with a grunt and a shaky drag.

"Yeah," he muttered, the smoke making his voice raspier than usual.

Sophia pulled out her phone and made a quick call. "Yeah, get the crew down here. Full sweep. Now."

Lou motioned to his driver. "I need a medic and a new fucking leg."

As the warehouse started to clear out, bodies were quietly bagged up, blood was mopped, and the only sound left was the dull thrum of industrial fans overhead.

No more yelling. No more bullets.

Just business.

And somewhere in the shadows of Gotham, Red Hood was already on the move. The game had shifted. Roman Sionis just didn't know it yet.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The night was thick with fog and the scent of smoke—standard Gotham weather. Streetlights below flickered like they were nervous, and distant sirens echoed through alleyways like some broken citywide lullaby.

Up on a rooftop overlooking the East End, Jim Gordon lit a cigarette with a flick of his Zippo. The flame briefly lit up his weathered face and tired eyes. His trench coat flapped a little in the wind, though the man wearing it didn't flinch. He was used to nights like this. Far too used to them.

"Found anything on Gotham's new pain in the ass?" he asked, blowing out smoke, his voice worn and scratchy.

Batman stood near the edge of the rooftop, cape flowing like it had a mind of its own. He turned slightly, his silhouette sharp against the dark skyline.

"Been busy the last couple weeks. Still nothing solid on him," Batman replied, tone as flat as ever.

Gordon let out a dry exhale, half sigh, half smoke. "Yeah, GCPD's about ready to snap. Between this stupid turf war between the Falcone and Bertinelli crews, and the bodies piling up? We're playing catch-up every damn day. These guys don't care where they fight anymore. Grocery stores, street corners, playgrounds."

He took another drag, shook his head. "Used to be people just claimed the Red Hood name for small-time jobs—robbing banks, boosting trucks. Kids with guns trying to act like legends."

"None of them ever murdered anyone," Batman said, glancing at Gordon's way. "Not like this."

"Right," Gordon muttered. "This guy's different. Real quiet, real vicious. So what's the deal with these families going at each other's throats? We've been trying to keep it off the streets, but innocent people are getting caught in the middle."

"I talked to some of their top guys a few nights back," Batman said. "They clammed up. Didn't say a word about what sparked this. Just stared me down like they thought I was bluffing."

"You tell 'em to cut the crap?" Gordon asked.

"I told them if they didn't get a grip, things would get worse. A lot worse."

Gordon nodded slowly, not saying anything for a second. Then he rubbed a hand over his face and said, "And of course, every time we bring someone in—doesn't matter which family they're with—they're back on the street by the end of the week. Bail money never seems to run dry for these guys."

"Just focus on keeping people alive," Batman said. "I'll take care of the Red Hood situation."

Gordon let out a breath and looked down at the streetlights flickering far below. "All of this started with the Bertinelli case. If we can figure out what really happened that night, we might get a lead on what Red Hood's after. Figure out why he's doing this."

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded photo, handing it over.

"Take a look at this," he said.

Batman took it, holding it in the dim rooftop light. The photo was grim. A man—mid-thirties, heavyset—was taped to the hood of a car. A crowbar jutted from his chest like a gruesome hood ornament, blood soaked into the windshield and pooling across the hood.

"That's Troy Rusk," Gordon said. "Did time for armed robbery back in the day. Got out, went quiet, then turned up working muscle for Black Mask."

Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. He studied the angle of the body, the placement of the crowbar, the way the blood had dried in streaks. It wasn't random.

"This wasn't just a hit," he said. "It was personal. Designed to send a message."

Gordon blinked. "You think it was a statement?"

"Yeah. This guy wasn't the target—he was the warning. A message for whoever he worked for."
Gordon's brow furrowed. "So... for Sionis."

Batman nodded. "Looks like Black Mask just got pulled into this mess."

Gordon gave a dry chuckle. "Well, that's just perfect. Maybe it's time you dropped in on our favorite psycho in a suit."

"I will," Batman said, turning toward the ledge. He paused, just before stepping off.

"How's your daughter?"

The question caught Gordon off guard. He stared at Batman's back for a second before answering, voice quieter than before.

"She's… she's alright. As alright as someone in her situation can be. The therapy's helped. She's laughing again, smiling more. Still got a long road ahead, but she's… her old self, a little."

He hesitated, flicked ash off his cigarette. "Wheelchair's permanent though. That's not changing."

Batman gave a small nod, not turning back. "Be safe out there. She needs you. You're all she's got."

Then, like always, he was gone. One second standing on the ledge, the next—just a flap of cape disappearing into the Gotham night.
Gordon stood there for a few seconds longer, cigarette burning low in his hand, wind pushing the collar of his coat up around his neck. The city below groaned and churned with unrest. He crushed the cigarette underfoot.

"I will," he muttered to no one in particular.
The shadows didn't answer. They never did.

- - -

[Gotham's West Industrial District – Black Mask's Safehouse]

The wind howled through broken windows and rusted scaffolding, rattling loose metal signs and stirring the acrid stink of burnt gunpowder. Gotham's West Industrial was a dead zone.

Abandoned warehouses. Forgotten factories. The kind of place where no one noticed if a shootout broke out or a body got dumped.

Inside one of the larger warehouses, Roman Sionis—better known as Black Mask—stood behind a long steel table, going over blueprints and shipment manifests. Around him were half a dozen armed men, all twitchy and geared up like they were prepping for a war.

Because they were.

"What the hell is this?" Roman snapped, slamming his palm against the papers.

"Someone killed Troy like he was some goddamn billboard!"

He was seething, his black wooden mask hiding most of the fury—but his voice was pure venom. The room smelled of cigars and gun oil, tension thick in the air.

Suddenly, the power cut out. A heavy thunk echoed through the dark.

Then a scream.

And a body hit the floor.

The guards raised their rifles, spinning in circles, shouting over one another.

"Shut up!" Roman barked.

Something moved in the rafters—just a flicker. Then another body dropped, thudding hard onto the concrete.

The third man didn't even get to shout before he vanished into the shadows above, his scream cut short with a crunch.

Roman pulled his pistol, fury boiling into panic. "Show yourself, you coward freak!"

And then he did.

Batman landed silently between Roman and the remaining guards, rising from the crouch like death itself in a cape. The guards fired—reflex, not strategy. Batman moved like smoke and violence. Two guards were down before they hit the trigger a second time.

Roman stumbled back, gun shaking.

"Wait—hold on—this wasn't me!" Roman yelled, sweat soaking his collar.

Batman stalked forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him onto the table, scattering maps and documents.

"Troy Rusk," Batman growled. "He was yours. Now he's a corpse with a message pinned to his chest."

Roman coughed, squirming. "I didn't order that! Hell, I liked Troy! This wasn't one of my hits!"

"Then who?" Batman pressed harder.

Roman wheezed. "I don't know! We've been taking hits on our supply lines too—someone's targeting us all! Your guess is as good as mine!"

Batman leaned in close. "You're on someone's list. Figure out why, or you'll be next. And when that happens…"

He let go and turned, already melting into the darkness.

"…you'll wish it was me who came for you."

He could have easily told Batman it was Red Hood, but he didn't trust Batman even the slightest to do so. Especially after hearing that Red Hood also wears the bat symbol.

- - -

[Across from the Warehouse – Rooftop Perch]

Jason Todd crouched in the shadows of a rooftop billboard, helmet off, the cool wind running through his hair. He watched through the scope of a high-powered rifle—not loaded, just observation mode—as Batman vanished into the shadows of Roman's safehouse.

Jason's lips curled into a smirk.

"Well. He's moving faster than I thought." Behind him, the wind picked up, tugging at his jacket. He stood, holstering the rifle and slinging his helmet back on with a soft hiss.

Red Hood's voice filtered through the helmet's comms; "Roman'll panic. He'll lash out. And then he'll give me what I want."

Jason walked toward the rooftop exit, stepping over a tied-up goon who'd tried to ambush him earlier. The guy was duct-taped to a vent, shivering from the broken nose and fear.

Jason stopped beside him.

"Tell your boss that the storm's just starting. And I haven't even gotten personal yet." He tossed the crowbar down beside the guy.

Just to send a message.


- - -

[Two Night's Later At The Docks]

The docks were quiet—too quiet. Just the sea lapping against the rust-stained piers and the occasional clank of metal shifting in the night.

Containers were stacked high like crooked buildings, casting long shadows in the pale dock lights. It smelled like salt, oil, and rust. The kind of place that didn't ask questions and forgot what it saw.

Then came the truck.

A black transport roared through the loading zone, engine howling like it was being chased by death itself. It fishtailed hard around a turn, tires screeching, rubber burning on concrete.

Inside the truck, three guys were losing their damn minds.

"Go, go, go—get us the fuck outta here!" the guy in the passenger seat yelled, white-knuckling the dash.

"I'm going, man! I'm going!" the driver snapped, jerking the wheel like his life depended on it. "Where the hell are Kanan and Riley?! They were behind us!"

"Screw them! We've gotta move or we're dead too!" said the guy in the back, looking over his shoulder like something was crawling up their spine.

"I don't see him," the passenger muttered, eyes darting to the side mirror. "Think we lost him?"
The driver squinted, almost too scared to believe it. "You sure?"

A beat passed. The backseat guy leaned forward and gave a shaky nod. "Yeah... I think you lost—"

THUD.

Something heavy slammed onto the hood of the truck. Hard.

All three screamed like their souls tried to jump out of their bodies.

A flash of movement—Robin crouched on the hood, cape flaring behind him, sword in hand. Without hesitation, he stabbed it straight through the windshield and into the steering column.

The wheel locked.

"Shit! It's him! It's Robin!" the driver shouted, swerving like crazy but getting no response from the wheel.

The others fumbled for their guns, shooting through the windshield. But Robin was already gone—vanished into the dark like a ghost in red and black.

Then came the batarangs.

Two sharp slices through the air—whip, whip—and the front and rear tires blew out in unison.

The truck swerved hard, spinning sideways before crashing into a stack of crates. Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. Something heavy slammed to the ground in the back, a steel container skidding out the back and hissing like it had just been popped open.

Batman dropped in like a guillotine blade from the shadows.

He landed beside the truck and yanked the dazed driver through the shattered window like a ragdoll, slamming him against the nearest shipping crate.

"Who are you working for?" Batman growled.
"N-No one! It's just us, man, I swear—" Robin landed beside them, flicking the oil off his sword as he walked up.

"Lie again, and I'm turning your kneecaps into gravel," he said calmly, eyes sharp behind the domino mask.

"I'm telling the truth! I swear on—!" The sharp hiss from the metal crate cut him off.

They turned just in time to see something crawl out of the container.

It stood upright—tall, lean, orange-skinned with pointed ears and black skin-tight material clinging to its frame. It looked almost human..but not quite. The way it moved was too clean. Too smooth. Eyes too empty and glowing red.

"What the hell is that?" the driver wheezed.
Batman didn't blink. "Your cargo." Robin stared at the thing, visibly thrown. "Okay, seriously, what is that?"

"Its name is Amazo." Batman replied.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Yeah, that doesn't help. What's an Amazo?"

Before Batman could explain, the android let out a low, guttural roar—and launched itself straight into the air.

Both arms came crashing down into the pavement, sending a shockwave that shook the whole lot. Crates toppled. The van flipped sideways. The shock cracked the asphalt like it owed the ground money.

Batman shot up with a grapple line. Robin did the same.

They regrouped on a nearby crate stack. Batman glanced down at the twitching criminals and zip-tied them in a flash. Robin dropped beside him, still eyeing the android below.

"What the hell is this thing? I don't recognize the species, the tech, nothing." Batman didn't look away. "It's a cybernetic android designed to mimic the powers of metahumans."

Robin raised an eyebrow. "Okay, now I'm listening. What kind of metahumans are we talking about here?"

He got his answer when Amazo came charging in again.

It threw a punch that would've turned concrete to dust. Batman and Robin split in opposite directions, dodging with seconds to spare.

The punch slammed into a container—BOOM—leaving a massive dent and a spray of sparks.
Batman hurled a set of batarangs. Amazo swatted them like flies.

Robin side-eyed his father. "You really expected that to do anything?"
"They're not done."

The batarangs boomeranged back and embedded themselves in Amazo's back, right before exploding.

Amazo was blasted off his feet. "Nice," Robin admitted.

He dropped a set of smoke pellets while Amazo was still reeling. Smoke rolled across the lot.

Batman slid on brass knuckles.

"Let's take it apart."

They dove into the smoke together.

Batman's punch would have cracked a normal human's jaw. Robin kicked it in the side, hard enough to send it staggering, but it didn't. Batman landed another solid hit, peeling back synthetic skin. Sparks flew.

But Amazo wasn't down for long. It flew straight up, smoke swirling off its body as it hovered. Then its eyes lit up.

"Laser eyes. Of course," Robin muttered. Twin red beams shot downward, carving through the concrete as Robin dove out of the way and retaliated with a trio of explosive batarangs.

BOOM!

Amazo stumbled in the air, sparking.
Angry now, it dropped with another ground-splitting punch.

"Y'know," Robin muttered, "he seems really focused on you… and just kind of annoyed at me."

"You're welcome," Batman said dryly.
They kept moving, dodging more laser blasts, but the margin was getting thinner. Amazo was adapting—starting to predict their attacks and block them.

"We need to end this fast," Robin said, ducking under a swipe.

"It's modeled after human physiology. Weaknesses apply."

Robin's lips curled into a grin. "Got it." Batman blinked. "Wait, Robin—!"

Too late.

Robin sprinted straight at Amazo, dodging lasers with parkour-like flips and sidesteps. At the last second, he tossed smoke bombs and vanished into the fog.

Amazo switched to thermal vision. The red glow swept the smoke—and just as it spotted him, Robin was already mid-air.

SHINK—SHNK—CHHK!

All that could be heard were wet metallic slashes and the hiss of oil hitting concrete.
The smoke cleared.

Robin stood there, sword lowered, breathing steady. His blade dripped with thick, black oil.

Amazo lay in pieces—headless, one arm gone, one leg clean off. The oily black substance pooled beneath it like blood. The tied-up criminals just stared.

"Holy shit," one whispered. "Remind me never to mess with that kid."

Robin didn't even glance at them. He just flicked the oil off his blade and looked at Batman.

Batman gave a single nod of approval. They cuffed each thug individually, slammed each of them against a container wall, and made it real clear the time for games was over.

"This shipment was for Black Mask," Batman said coldly. "You three are too dumb to rob him. Who sent you?"

"Nobody!" one of them shouted. "We just—!"

THUNK.

Robin's sword stabbed into the metal wall an inch from the guy's face. "You're stalling," Robin said. "Next time it's your thigh."

The guy practically pissed himself. "Okay! Okay, I'll talk!" he shouted. "It was Red Hood—he—"

CRACK!

Blood sprayed the container behind him as a bullet ripped through his skull. The other two dropped a second later—clean shots to the head.

Batman yanked Robin into cover.

"Sniper," Robin said, peeking around the crate.

Batman pulled out a pair of binoculars and zoomed in. Far across the water, a figure was already packing up a long-barrel rifle, heading for the rooftops.

"Got him," he muttered.

Robin tried to get a look himself, but then he heard a low hum overhead.

He looked up—and saw the Batwing descending, a zipline extending. Batman was already halfway up. "Wait!" Robin called out.

"Stay here," Batman replied flatly, vanishing into the belly of the jet. Robin just stood there, watching the Batwing rocket off into the sky. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Controlled.

Old him would've chased it down out of spite. Now? He let it go.

But as he turned away and headed deeper into the shadows, his jaw clenched and his fingers curled.


- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

The rifle kicked once, sharp and clean, and Jason watched the first man's head snap back like a puppet whose strings were cut. The others didn't even scream. They just dropped. One after another.

Three clean shots. No hesitation. No noise except the suppressed pfft of the barrel and the soft rustle of shell casings dropping onto gravel.

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, lowering the scope.

He stayed prone for a second longer, eyes tracking the scene across the water.

Batman and Robin already went into cover, scrambling behind a container as the last body hit the ground. They were fast. Always were. Especially the kid. But not fast enough to stop him.

Jason shifted his rifle, quickly disassembling the barrel and stuffing it into a hard-shell case
beside him. No words. No drama. Just another job done. The wind bit at his jawline beneath the red helmet as he rose and slipped into the shadows of the rooftop.

He moved fast, methodical leaping across narrow alley gaps, boots hitting the gravel and tar of Gotham's old buildings with a practiced silence. The Batwing's engines roared in the distance.

Figures.

He glanced up once, watching the jet tear through the clouded sky like a hunting hawk. It hadn't spotted him yet, but it would. Batman always figured out where to look eventually.

Red Hood was flying across Gotham's rooftops like a parkour junkie with something to prove. Quick, sharp, agile—like the city was just an obstacle course he knew by heart. His boots tapped metal and concrete. Didn't matter. He kept moving, fast and smooth.

And up above, that damn Batwing hummed low in the sky, stalking him like a shadow with wings.

Batman wasn't letting up.

Jason smirked behind the helmet. Of course he wasn't. Bruce never did.

He dove into an alley, skidding along a rusted fire escape before dropping to street level. The Batwing slowed up, floating higher to get a better angle.

Then came the roar.

A deep, guttural engine screamed as a blue 1969 Ford Mustang burst out of the alley like a bat out of hell. It hit the street hard, tires screeching, fishtailing once before finding grip and tearing through traffic.

Batman clocked it immediately.

Jason was behind the wheel, and he was hauling ass.

This wasn't your average car chase—this was something else. A whole new level. Getting tailed by Batman? That's not just dangerous—that's Gotham's version of a death sentence.

But Jason was calm behind the wheel. Smooth. Focused. He kept Bruce close—real close—but never close enough to get caught.

If he wanted to vanish, he could've.

He didn't.

Zip-lines shot from the Batwing with a hiss, metal cables punching into the Mustang's roof like steel claws trying to drag him up into the sky.

The car bucked, rear wheels screeching as the line yanked tight.

Jason reached up, popped the latch. The detachable roof flew off like a soda can lid, and the Mustang bolted forward, free again.

"Come on, Bruce," Jason muttered under his breath. "Let's see if you've still got it."

He veered into a tunnel, lights flickering above as the sound of the engine echoed like thunder. The Batwing followed, reshaping its frame mid-flight, narrowing itself to fit through the tight space.

As soon as they were out, another cable launched—aimed for the back tire.

"Nope. Not today."

Jason cranked the wheel hard and yanked the handbrake. The car spun in a clean, smoke-spitting donut, then rocketed down a different lane, leaving the line slicing through empty space.

He caught a glimpse of a red-light cam up ahead and gave it the middle finger as he blew through an intersection doing double the speed limit.

Another zip-line. This one came in low—too low.

He dodged left, then—bam—trap sprung.

A second line latched onto the driver's side door, yanking the whole car sideways mid-turn.

Jason didn't flinch.

"I gotta hand it to you, B..." he muttered.

With a swift kick, the door blasted off its hinges, and he didn't slow down. He aimed the Mustang straight at a looming steel structure, the building already giving off that old chemical stink that clung to your clothes for days.

The Mustang smashed through a rusted roll-up door with a metallic screech and skidded into the factory, knocking over barrels and tanks before finally slamming into a vat. Chemicals hissed and spilled across the floor in thick, toxic puddles.

Up above, the Batwing hovered, then let its pilot drop.

Batman crashed through the glass skylight, landing hard on a catwalk high above the chaos. His boots hit with a thud. The place hadn't changed much.

Ace Chemicals.

The air was heavy with rot and regret. Pipes moaned. Vats bubbled. It was like the place was still haunted by its past—and Bruce could feel every damn ghost in it.

He spotted the crashed Mustang, steam rising from its hood, liquid oozing onto the concrete.

But no sign of Red Hood.

Then he saw it—a section of the railing up ahead. It looked... new. Out of place.

His stomach tightened.

It was this place. This exact place. The one that turned a scared wannabe into Gotham's biggest joke.

He remembered it all.

Red Hood. Not Jason. The first one. Tuxedo, helmet, cape way too long. Looked like he was in a cheap magician's act.

Batman had chased him through this very place. The guy had panicked—screaming it was a setup, begging to be heard.

Bruce hadn't listened.

He pulled out the cuffs, eyes cold. The guy reached to take off the helmet, saying he wasn't a crook. Swearing it.

Then the cape got caught under his feet.

He slipped. Grabbed the railing. But the rusted screws gave out.

Bruce reached for him—too late.

He remembered the scream. The splash. The silence after.

Cards floated to the surface.

Then... nothing.

That man never came back.

Only Joker did.

"Hard to forget that, huh?"

The voice cut through the fog in his head like a knife.

Batman snapped out of it, turning toward the sound. Jason stood on another catwalk, helmet on, pistol aimed casual and steady.

That red bat on his chest burned like a challenge. A scarlet insult.

Jason's voice was low, cold. "This place... it's where you really messed up the first time. Your first big failure. Maybe your worst."

He cocked the gun. "Definitely not your last."

Batman didn't move. Didn't flinch.

Then Jason fired.

The bullet hit the wrecked Mustang, sparks dancing across the chemical slick. Flame snapped to life—bright, fast, hungry. It shot across the floor, chasing the trail of leaking liquid like it had a grudge.

The explosion hit like a bomb.

Jason turned, shielded his body from the blast with his coat.

Batman pulled the cape around him and braced, heat licking at his armor. He caught a flash of red sprinting off through the smoke.

He ran after him.

Metal bent and screamed. Another blast went off, knocking Batman off his feet. He dropped like a stone.

Straight toward a tank of bubbling acid.

"Karma's a bitch," Jason's voice echoed.

But Bruce was quicker than fate.

He fired the grapple gun, line shooting skyward. It caught, pulled him hard, and he kicked off the tank mid-air. He swung up, twisting in the air as another fireball erupted behind him. It threw him off balance, sent him tumbling.

He hit the floor in a roll, cape smoking.

Some people would call that luck.

But this was Batman.

- - -

[One Rooftop Over…]

Jason stood on a nearby building, arms crossed, helmet under one arm as he looked down at the wreckage. The heat shimmered off the roof. The explosions had painted the sky in orange and black.

His breathing was calm now.

That had been fun.

He hadn't felt that alive since he came back to Gotham.

Batman would be fine. He always was. But tonight wasn't about winning or losing. It was about reminding Bruce that ghosts don't stay buried forever.

Sometimes they show up with guns.

Sometimes they smile.

And sometimes... they drive a Mustang straight into your past just to make you remember what you chose to forget.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The door to the safehouse groaned shut behind him with a metallic whine that echoed through the concrete walls. Place smelled like dust, burnt wiring, and cheap takeout.

Cracked tile underfoot, wires snaking along the ceiling like veins. A mattress lay in the corner, no sheets, no blanket—just a vague suggestion of sleep. Way different from the apartment he used when he needed to play normal.

Jason yanked off the Red Hood helmet and tossed it onto the workbench, the thud of it landing loud in the stillness. He peeled off the armored jacket next, muscles tight and aching from the run—and still carrying the lingering heat of the factory fire. His skin felt like it was steaming under the shirt.

The red bat emblem on his chestplate caught the overhead light and glared up at him, like it had something to say.

He didn't listen.

Instead, he crossed the room, boots crunching against scattered shell casings and broken bits of gear. He stopped at the wall.

It was a war board, chaotic, obsessive, and deeply personal. Pinned photos, maps of Gotham's neighborhoods, routes in and out of gang-controlled territories. Strings connected key names and crime scenes. Lines were crossed through some. Others were circled in black.

But only one name sat in the dead center, circled in red that looked more like dried blood than ink.
Joker.

Jason just stood there, arms folded, jaw clenched.

"That was so damn fun, Bruce," he muttered under his breath, grabbing a marker and drawing a thick, black line through one of the entries under Black Mask.

AMAZO Shipment, Terminated.

His hand trembled for a split second—not from pain, not even adrenaline. Restraint. Holding back was always the hardest part. He could've taken the shot.

Could've made sure Bruce died in that factory explosion, just like he did all those years ago. Could've ended the whole game in one flaming flash of poetic justice.

But he didn't want Bruce dead.

That wasn't the mission.

This wasn't about petty revenge anymore. And honestly? The pain had dulled. Hardened. Been weaponized.

This was about truth.

About showing Gotham exactly who its heroes really were—and who was willing to cross lines to fix what they wouldn't.

He stepped over to the sink, turned the faucet till it squeaked, and splashed cold water on his face. It stung against the heat still clinging to him, but he welcomed it.

He looked up.

The mirror was cracked. Probably had been for a while. His reflection stared back in jagged fragments. Half Jason. Half Red Hood. All ghost.

He stared for a long second.

Didn't blink.

"This is who I am now," he murmured, wiping water from his jaw.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—half cocky, half dead serious.

"Everything's going according to plan."

- - -

[Bruce Wayne's POV – The Batcave]

The Batwing touched down in the hangar with a hiss and a blast of scorched air.

Bruce stepped out slowly, cape dragging behind him, its edges still charred from the fire. Ash clung to the fabric like guilt he couldn't shake. The soft hum of the Batcomputer filled the cavern, quiet but constant, no help against the noise pounding in his head.

He walked straight past the glass cases and armor racks, heading for the console. Pulled off the cowl with a tired tug and dropped it on the desk. Then just stood there, hands braced against the edge, head down.

Behind him, Alfred stood in his usual spot, quiet, watchful, patient.

The screen flickered to life, displaying a frozen street-cam image. Mid-chase. Red Hood was caught in the blue mustang flipping the middle finger to the traffic camera, without the visibility of his mask. The red bat symbol on his chest blazed like a slap in the face.

Bruce didn't even blink.

"You could've stopped him," Alfred said quietly after a beat. "You had the shot."

Bruce's jaw flexed. His fingers dug into the desk.

"He wanted me to follow him," he muttered. "The car, the route... even the factory. It was all staged."

He stared past the screen now, somewhere far away.

"Maybe, even the fall…"

Alfred took a careful step forward, voice soft. "That place… you haven't gone back there since—"

"I know," Bruce cut in, flat and fast.

That shut it down. The way his voice clipped the words made it clear, not tonight. Maybe not ever. He couldn't even tell Alfred about how seeing an imposter wearing the bat crest made him feel, because he would be asked questions he didn't have answers to.

Alfred gave a quiet nod and stepped away, leaving Bruce alone with the hum of the computer and the weight in his chest.

Someone out there knew everything. Not just the mission. The location. The symbol. Knew who he was, what he'd done... what he couldn't forget.

And Bruce knew next to nothing in return.

For a man who lived and breathed intel, the silence was maddening.

He sat down, fingers moving across the keys. Pulled up traffic cams, dock feeds, warehouse footage. Nothing helpful. Just static and shadows.

He thought back to the Joker. He'd interrogated him a while ago—same as always. Arrogant. Cryptic. Mocking. But something about it hadn't sat right this time. Jason's words still echoed in his head. The control in his movements. The precision. That wasn't Joker-style chaos.

That was intent.

He barely had time to process it when he heard soft footsteps coming down the stone stairs—light, fast, and not trying to be sneaky.

Damian.

The kid looked fresh from patrol—or maybe fresh from an argument about homework. His suit was still half-worn. Eyes sharp though, as always.

"Homework done?" Bruce asked without looking up.

"Barely," Damian muttered. "Alfred threatened to bench me if I didn't finish my math. I'm calling that blackmail."

Bruce let out a faint breath, not quite a laugh.

"You should thank him."

"I'd rather write an essay on the field applications of C-4."

He drifted toward the console, leaning casually, but his gaze landed on the screen.

He studied his father for a moment. That expression… it wasn't anger. Not frustration either.

It looked like loss.

But Damian didn't say anything. He knew better.

"You catch the shooter?" he asked instead, changing gears.

"No," Bruce replied. "He got away."

"Who's this guy, and did you get a look at his face?"

"Masked. It was Red Hood."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "Same guy who targeted the Bertinellis?"

Bruce nodded slightly. "And now he's after Black Mask. Been hitting his supply lines for weeks. Not stealing, just making a point."

Damian tilted his head. "What kind of point?"

Bruce didn't answer right away.

"I'm not sure yet," he admitted.

Damian crossed his arms. "So no leads. No motive. That's why you haven't caught him."

"Not yet. But if we stay close to Black Mask, track his movements, we'll get another shot. He'll slip up."

"Unless he's already ahead of you," Damian said, just enough edge in his voice to toe the line.

Bruce glanced sideways. "Tread lightly."

Damian smirked but moved on. "Still… hard to believe someone slipped past you. Especially once you had him cornered."

Bruce didn't defend himself. He deflected.

"How's school?"

Damian groaned like he'd been stabbed. "It's a government-mandated hostage situation. With calculators."

"Made any friends?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Since the suspension, everyone avoids me. Which, frankly, is ideal."

"But?"

"There's one kid. Keeps trying to talk to me. Like we're in some kind of comedy show. I'm one poorly-timed joke away from dropping him."

Bruce didn't look up. "Maybe give him a chance. Not everyone's a threat."

"Feels like a lot of them are," Damian muttered. "Anyway, if we're tailing Black Mask, how do we do that from here?"

"Already handled it."

He tapped a few commands. A live audio field came through, voices in the background.

"I bugged his office before I left."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Nice."

On the feed, Black Mask was pacing and yelling. Pure fury on a loop.

Bruce leaned in. "Let's see how he handles being cornered."

Damian nodded. "We track Roman long enough… we'll find Red Hood."

Bruce said nothing. Just stared at the screen.

"Yeah," Bruce said quietly. "Eventually."

- - -

[Janus Tower—Black Mask Empire Building]

Two men stepped out of the elevator and into the heart of one of Gotham's most heavily guarded buildings. The place felt like a fortress—security cameras in every corner, guards posted at every turn.

It wasn't a place you walked through casually. You moved with purpose, or not at all.

The older of the two had a clean-cut, sharp suit, the kind of guy who had definitely broken bones for a paycheck—walked with calm authority. His companion? A newbie to the inner circle of the empire.

Built like a pitbull but stiff in the shoulders, like he hadn't figured out how to carry himself in this world yet.

"Listen, I know you haven't met him yet, but keep it together, yeah?" the handler said without looking over. "This is Black Mask."

The newbie didn't answer, just nodded, jaw locked.

"The first boss to run Gotham in twenty years," the handler went on, slowing as they reached a massive brown door.

"Whatever he wants, he gets. And trust me… his look takes some getting used to, so watch yourself."

He was about to push open the door when shouting erupted from the other side.

"Goddammit!"

There was a loud bang, something getting slammed. The door shook a little from their perspective.

"Great," the handler muttered under his breath. "He's pissed as hell."

They stepped inside.

The office wasn't really an office. It was more like a private conference room.

Gotham's skyline stretched out behind the huge glass windows, moody and grey. In the center of the room, behind a desk big enough to land a drone on, stood Roman Sionis—Black Mask himself.

He wasn't alone. Three guards stood near the desk, fresh off delivering bad news.

His personal secretary, Ms. Li, stood off to the side, tablet in hand, as composed as ever. She didn't flinch, didn't interrupt, just kept reading schedules, names, and damage control strategies.

The rookie's eyes locked on Black Mask, wide and stunned. That mask was real. Skin fused, shaped like a skull, and somehow even more menacing up close.

Cold, unreadable, and permanent.

"Troy's replacement?" the secretary asked, glancing at the newbie.

The handler nodded. Troy Rusk had been found dead just a few days ago, with a crowbar jammed through his chest. Since then, Roman's tightened security like a noose.

"Our concern is the one who ordered the android theft," the secretary said, flipping a page on her screen. "Red Hood."

Roman let out a low growl. "That son of a bitch."

"For weeks, he's been taking out your shipments. It's almost like he's draining you—cutting off your supply, one truck at a time."

The newbie and his handler didn't say a word. Just blended in near the other guards, staying quiet and out of the blast zone.

"I paid good money to hire the Fearsome Hand of Four to gut that bastard," Roman barked, pacing behind his desk. "They've been MIA ever since. Maybe they should check the sewers—bet that's where he lives."

He stopped for a second, seething.

"Do any of you fuckers know how many people were lined up to bid on Amazo?"

The room stayed dead silent.

"I'm talking dictators, cartel freaks, old-world psychos. The list was a damn who's who of global nightmares."

He spun around. "Millions—gone! Just like that!"

"And whose money was it?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Yours," the secretary replied without missing a beat.

Roman pointed at her like she just nailed the bonus round. "That's right. Mine. All of it!"

He turned his chair to face the new guys directly. The rookie's eyes stayed locked on his mask, unable to look away. The thing was nightmare fuel.

The type of shit that could hunt him in his sleep.

The handler gave him a sharp look, 'keep it together.'

Roman stepped out from behind the desk.

"That robot was my ticket to the next level. Big-time. International players. You know what that means?"

Nobody answered.

"It means I'm stuck down here again, balls-deep in small-time bullshit. Back to breaking legs and selling dime bags while Batman stomps all over my business and steals my broken merchandise."

"Batman did take the scraps," the secretary added, almost like she was talking about a recipe. "That's what he does, he keep things."

Roman sucked in a slow breath, calming himself just enough to keep from breaking something.

"This clown—this Red Fool—"

"Red Hood," the secretary corrected.

He waved her off. "Whatever. He's crossed a line I think only Joker had the balls to."

He looked straight at the newbie.

"You. New guy."

He tensed up upon being addressed.

"Don't be nervous," Roman said, stepping closer. "But if you keep staring at me like that, I will rip your eyes out and make you choke on them."

The newbie blinked and looked away
fast, but the disturbing sight of Roman's face slowly pulled his eyes like magnets.

Roman slugged him with a heavy punch. Fist to nose. The rookie hit the floor with a grunt and a spatter of blood.

"Give me the details for the next shipment," Roman said casually, walking back to his chair like nothing happened.

"six cases of SMGs and PDWs," the newbie said through the nose bleed, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "One crate of RPGs…"

In the Batcave, Bruce sat quietly in front of the Batcomputer while Damian stood nearby, both listening through the live feed from the bug Bruce had slipped into Roman's office.

"It's a delivery-only. Everything's prepaid," the rookie continued. "No on-site exchange."

"I've doubled the security detail," the secretary added. "And moved the drop to a new location."

Roman nodded. "There's no way Red Hood finds that spot unless there's a rat in here."

He stared down each man in the room. One by one. Lingering just long enough to let the pressure sink in. The secretary was the only one he didn't bother with. Her loyalty wasn't in question.

"Alright," he growled. "Now, get the fuck out of my office."

Everyone filed out. The guards posted back up at the door. The newbie limped a little as he followed the rest.

Roman stayed at the window, watching the city like a man itching to set it on fire.

"How about we set a trap for that cocksucker…" he said, almost to himself.

The secretary, always ready, replied smoothly. "What do you have in mind, sir?"

He didn't turn to face her.

"Send out fake intel. Drop point in a remote location. Leak it like it's the real deal. Then have those Fearsome idiots waiting. Make sure it's messy."

"Understood."

What Roman didn't know—what no one in that room knew, was that Jason Todd was listening too.

At his safehouse, Red Hood sat cleaning his gear. Guns laid out on the table. Knives sharpened to perfection. A small transponder sat beside him, streaming the same feed from a hidden bug he'd planted.

Jason smirked as he checked a magazine and muttered to himself, "Sounds like a date."

Back in Roman's office, the secretary kept going, flipping to the next item on her screen.

"What about the dealers refusing to pay their fees?"

Roman didn't even blink.

"Drag one of 'em in. Make an example. Let the rest see what happens."

"Consider it done."

And just like that, the room went quiet again—Gotham's crime boss already spinning his next move in the shadows of a city that never ran out of blood to spill.

Oh sweet—sweet Gotham, how cruel and unforgiving it is.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Abandoned Warehouse – Gotham City – 9:45 PM]

A cold, sharp draft snuck through shattered panes above, rattling the rusted chains that dangled from exposed steel beams.

Above, a single naked bulb swayed from a frayed electrical cord. It flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting erratic shadows across the room, strobing the scene in pulsing flashes of light and dark.

Everything about the place felt like a scene pulled straight out of someone's worst nightmare.

The drug dealer sat center-stage, tied to a heavy metal chair that had been bolted into the floor. Duct tape was slapped across his mouth, but the look in his eyes said plenty—pure, animal panic.

Sweat drenched his face and soaked the front of his shirt, clinging to him like a second skin. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. The man stank of fear.

Next to him stood a grim little table. Laid out across it like a surgeon's kit were the tools; rusted pliers, a small blowtorch, thick nails, a bone saw, hammer, meat hook, and a power drill still stained from its last use. There was no attempt to hide the purpose of any of it. The setup wasn't meant to scare,, it was meant to break.

The dealer flinched at the distant sound of screeching tires tearing into the silence outside.

Moments later, a sleek black luxury sedan pulled up near the warehouse's wide loading doors. The car was polished obsidian, tinted so dark it looked like the night itself had folded into steel.

When the back door opened with a soft hiss of hydraulics, everything seemed to hold its breath.

Roman Sionis—Black Mask—emerged from the backseat like a god walking into his temple. He wore a long black trench coat that brushed the ground behind him, his infamous skull-shaped mask catching the flickering light, bone-white and gleaming.

The way he walked—slow, measured, like a predator already bored with the chase, spoke volumes. His shoulders were tight, fingers twitching subtly at his sides, his whole body riding the edge between control and pure violence.

Behind him, Ms. Li stepped into view. Her heels clicked crisply on the stained concrete, the only clean, crisp sound in the building. She was immaculate as always—hair pinned neatly back, silver-framed glasses perched perfectly on her nose, a black duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and a sleek tablet in hand. She didn't look at the dealer. She didn't need to.

Roman strode up to the man in the chair and ripped the duct tape from his mouth in one sharp, cruel motion.

"Agh! Please! Please—Roman—" Roman tilted his head, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across steel. Probably due to his dry throat.

"Oh, you remember my name now?" He drove a backhand across the dealer's face, hard. The sound cracked through the warehouse. Blood flew in a red arc from the man's mouth, splattering across the floor like paint.

Roman started pacing in a slow, deliberate circle around him, hands behind his back like he was walking a museum exhibit.

"See, here's what's been bugging me," he began, casually conversational, almost amused. "I fronted you product. I gave you turf. Kept the cops off your back. Kept the freaks at bay. You got to push weight, make stacks, live easy. And all I asked?
Loyalty."

He stopped behind the man, leaned in close, his voice dropping into a whisper that slithered straight into the man's ear.

"But then he shows up…" The air felt like it turned colder. That one pronoun weighed the whole room down like a slab of concrete.

Roman straightened, jaw clenched behind the mask.

"Red. Fucking. Hood."

He drove his fist into the man's ribs—an ugly, meaty thud. A crack. The man's scream tore through the air, high and desperate.

"Forty percent?!" Roman barked, grabbing the man by the hair and wrenching his head back. "You gave him forty percent—of my cut—just so he wouldn't torch your stash?! You handed that helmet-wearing punk protection money… from my inventory?!"

The man choked, eyes swimming with panic. "He would've killed me! You weren't—"

CRACK.

The hammer slammed into his kneecap. It didn't just break—it popped sideways with a sickening, wet crunch, ligaments tearing, bone grinding. The man screamed until his voice cracked.

"I don't give a rat's syphilitic ass what he would've done!" Roman thundered, spit flying from under the mask. "You bleed my colors, you die for me!"

He was panting now, chest rising and falling under his coat. Blood had splashed across his mask and gloves. The mask grinned back with its eternal rictus, but Roman's voice… that was where the real madness lived.

He turned back to the tray of tools, taking a moment to wipe his brow with the back of his sleeve. His hand hovered over the instruments like a man picking out a fine cigar.

Then, he grabbed the power drill.
He revved it.

"Let's get real cozy now."

- - -

[Few Minutes Later]

The drill spun with a high-pitched whine and dug into the man's thigh like a corkscrew into soft wood. The sound it made, flesh, muscle, and then bone, was nauseating. The man screamed until his voice was shredded, the veins in his neck bulging, his head snapping back and forth.

Roman took his time. His hands were steady. There was no shaking, no twitch. Just slow, deliberate cruelty. He worked like he was carving a message in the man's body.

When the drill finally pulled out with a grotesque squelch, blood trailing in a dark stream, Roman stared at the man, breathing heavily.

"You know what really pisses me off about him?" he asked, voice low again, quieter this time. "It's not the biker gear. Not the stupid helmet. Not even his little vigilante complex."

He stepped closer, crouched down, almost gently.

"It's the hope he gives you rats. The stupid belief that maybe, maybe, there's still a way out. A cleaner Gotham. Like any of you deserve that."

He laughed—harsh, jagged, bitter. "You think Gotham gives second chances? You think I built all this by hoping?" He reached for the pliers. Grabbed the man by the jaw.

"Open wide."

The man screamed again, blood bubbling in his throat as Roman pried a molar loose with two vicious tugs. The tooth came out with a spray of crimson and a long, twitching root. The man slumped forward, convulsing from shock.

Roman let the tooth clatter to the floor like a useless token.

"Every time I hear that name Red Hood, I feel my goddamn arteries tighten. I swear to God, if this keeps up, I'm gonna need a fuckin' doctor. Blood pressure's off the goddamn charts."

He stood up, a little winded now, glancing at the blood painting his gloves.

Roman turned to Ms. Li.

"Make a note—I want a cardiologist on standby."

Ms. Li, who hadn't moved a muscle the entire time, calmly tapped the command into her tablet. Her eyes were steady. Glassy. Emotionless. Not a twitch. Not a blink. You'd think she was taking lunch orders.

"And clean this up," Roman muttered, tossing the hammer to the floor with a wet clatter. It landed beside the body—what was left of it.

Roman exhaled long and slow, pulling a cigarette from his coat. His fingers, sticky with gore, trembled just slightly.

Behind him, Ms. Li closed the tablet, her heels already echoing toward the exit.

"How about the Fearsome Hand of Four?" He asked her as she came to a sudden halt.

"As arranged, they will ambush him at the designated location. If, he shows up." She replied.

"Good. He better fucking do." With that, she took her leave.

- - -

[A Bar Near Janus Tower–10:30 PM]

The bar was dark wood and red velvet. Ornate mirrors lined the walls, catching the flicker of hanging pendant lamps. A jazz tune played softly from an old gramophone in the corner—melancholy notes wrapped in smoke and old liquor.

Ms. Li sat at the polished mahogany counter, her tablet folded neatly beside a half-full glass of Yamazaki whisky. Her posture was perfect. Unshaken. No visible trace of the carnage from earlier. Just the faintest dot of blood on the cuff of her white blouse.

The bartender, a grizzled man who had worked near crime long enough to know better than to ask questions, placed a second glass beside hers.

"Boss coming?" he asked.

Ms. Li took a sip, her voice smooth as silk over steel.

"He's venting."

She didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.

Outside the window, Janus Tower loomed like a crown of thorns over Gotham's skyline.

The glass in front of her was now empty. Her expression hadn't changed since the first sip—serene, like a still lake hiding a trench of corpses underneath.

Ms. Li turned her eyes slowly toward the bar's far end, where a drunk couple giggled in a booth. Cheap perfume. Unpaid bills. One of them would be dead in six months. She could see it like math.

She tapped her tablet again. Files appeared, Red Hood's recent movements, satellite heat maps, intercepted comms chatter. The ghost of a smile flickered on her lips as she studied them. It never touched her eyes.

"You're trying to starve the beast," she whispered to the screen. "But Roman isn't a beast."

She closed the file with a swipe.

"He's a goddamn infection."

And she intended to keep it that way.

[Flashback to a couple months ago]

A few months ago, Roman went full berserker during a deal with a foreign arms broker. The deal collapsed, bodies hit the floor, and Ms. Li had to step in before international consequences landed at their doorstep.


The body was still twitching when Ms. Li stepped over it in her heels.

Two more lay slumped near the bar, one with a shattered jaw, the other bleeding out on the mahogany rug imported from Morocco. The stench of blood and expensive whiskey hung thick in the air.

Roman Sionis stood near the fireplace, suit spattered with gore, holding a pistol like he was still deciding who else needed to die.

"Roman," Ms. Li said calmly, not slowing her stride.

He didn't look at her. Just muttered, "They disrespected me."

"You screamed at them in five languages and shot their translator in the face."

"They laughed. Like I was some clown."

"You just cost us a $20 million contract with the Yao cartel," she said, voice neutral, precise. "And you've triggered a potential retaliation that could cripple our eastern route."

Roman finally turned toward her, pointing the gun like a petulant child. "Don't lecture me, Li."

"I'm not. I'm repairing you."

She tapped a button on her earpiece.

Seconds later, two teams entered—one cleanup crew in hazmat suits, one tech crew pulling drives and burning data. They moved like clockwork, like they'd done this before. Because they had.

Roman watched as his war room turned into a sterilized memory.

"You're lucky this was private," she said, pulling out her tablet. "But from now on, no personal meetings without me in the room."

"I run this empire, Li."

"Yes, you do. But you should also listen to the one who cleans up after you and maintains the wreckage you don't seem to care about." Her eyes briefly met his with a look of indifference.

"You enjoy chaos. I prevent collapse."


[Meanwhile — Present moment at the bar]

"Tony, my man. I'll have the usual. And hey—give the lady here a refill. Whiskey." He ordered, acting like he didn't know she had whiskey.

The voice came from beside her, but she didn't bother looking up. Figured he was talking to someone else.

Wasn't until the bartender actually refilled her glass that it clicked, he meant her.

She turned slightly, eyeing the guy now sitting to her left. Black hoodie, hood down. Definitely didn't fit the usual crowd.

Most people who stopped by after work were in suits or business casual—white collars winding down with overpriced drinks. This guy? He looked younger, out of place.

"Why whiskey?" she asked, voice flat.

"You look like you've had a long day," he said casually. "Whiskey helps loosen the mind."

She didn't respond at first. Just picked up the glass and swirled the amber liquid gently, eyes fixed on it. Then finally, quietly. "Thank you, then."

The guy turned a bit more toward her, lifting his own glass in a light gesture.

"So... what's got a woman like you drinking alone, looking like the weight of the world's on your shoulders?"

She side-eyed him, unamused. "And why would I share my thoughts with a total stranger?"

He just smiled, laid his glass on the counter, and held out a hand. "Fair enough. Name's Randy."

Of course, it wasn't. Jason couldn't afford to risk her knowing who he really was, or she could trace him back to his ties with the Wayne family.

She stared at the hand but didn't take it. "Li," she said simply, still distant.

He dropped his hand with a shrug. "Well... now we're not total strangers anymore, are we?"

She looked at him, longer this time. Like she was trying to read him, figure out what he was really after.

Most men who tried to chat her up were pretty easy to figure out. They all wanted the same thing—drink, flirt, fuck.

But this one? No sleazy looks. No pushy vibe. He just seemed... chill. Maybe even genuine. And that, strangely enough, put her more on edge than the usual creeps.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

She gazed into his eyes, searching for something, maybe a sliver of his nature, a clue to the kind of man he was. They weren't cold, yet they didn't feel warm either. Just… hollow.

But not in the empty kind of way—more like a well, dark and deep, where you couldn't tell how far down it went. Something about them pulled you in and shut you out all at once.

She couldn't read him—not one bit. And that irritated her just slightly. So, she did the next best thing; she engaged. People had a way of revealing themselves when they talked, even when they thought they weren't saying much.

"That's quite a bold statement," she said finally, tilting her glass before taking a slow sip, letting the burn settle on her tongue. Her eyes flicked up toward the white streak in his otherwise dark hair, shifting the conversation in his direction without bothering to answer his earlier question.

"Wasn't by choice," he replied simply, eyes meeting hers without a trace of flirtation or curiosity. Not once did his gaze drift to the modest peek of cleavage beneath her emerald-pendant necklace. Most men would've looked. Not him.

"Were you forced into dyeing it?" she asked with cool detachment, a touch of playful indifference in her tone.

"Not exactly." He leaned back slightly, elbows resting casually on the bar counter. "Woke up from hell one day and saw it in the mirror while taking a bath. A souvenir… of that experience."

She watched him closely. It wasn't a joke. It was in his posture—relaxed but guarded—in his voice, firm but tired, and especially in his eyes, those quiet storm clouds.

"That's quite the use of metaphors," she murmured, taking another sip and adjusting her glasses, the corner of her mouth twitching at the edges in something that might have been interesting.

Jason didn't respond. He let the silence sit there, weightless but deliberate. The bar had thinned out, and the late-night jazz humming from the old speaker above them gave the place a soft, dreamlike quality.

Light bounced off the rows of half-filled bottles behind the counter, casting reflections that rippled across the wall like ghosts.

She finally broke the silence.

"So tell me, Randy. What kind of man are you?"

"I can't say." He looked thoughtful, his eyes drifting toward the scratched-up countertop as though the answer might be etched into the wood grain. "I'm… me."

"That's a new one," she replied dryly, eyebrow arching as she tilted her glass in his direction. "You sure you're not just some psychopath?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, more curious than offended.

"Never mind," she said quickly, unsure how to explain the comment, or maybe just unwilling to try. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked away, suddenly too aware of her own transparency.

A quiet moment passed.

"I'll be taking my leave now. I've got work in the morning," she said, glancing toward the old wall clock hanging above the exit. It was nearing 2:30 a.m.

"I see. Well, it was nice conversing with you," he added.

That caught her off guard. Men rarely said that to her. Most found her boring or difficult to read. She didn't do small talk, didn't fake laughter, and never leaned into the expectations her looks created.

But he didn't seem to care about any of that.

"Have a good night, then," she said, finishing the last of her whiskey with a quiet gulp.

"It's past midnight in Gotham City," she added a moment later, her voice edged with something almost playful. "A gentleman would see me off. At least to the car."

Jason smirked lightly, but didn't move.

"You look like you can handle yourself around these parts."

"Oh?" she said, raising a brow. "And what makes you think that?"

"Because you wouldn't be here, drinking so comfortably, if you couldn't."

He said it as a matter of fact, without a hint of flattery or sarcasm. Just observation.

Most men would've jumped at the chance to offer her a ride, ask for her number, or awkwardly hint at taking things further. But this guy… he was just chill. Unbothered. Present. He made her feel like a person, not a prize. And that—it felt strange. Disarming.

"You're quite interesting," she said, grabbing her suit jacket from the back of her bar stool and slipping into it. "Maybe next time, you could tell me more about that 'hell' metaphor you dropped earlier."

"Cheers to that," Jason said, lifting his glass in a slow, effortless gesture of farewell.

She turned and headed toward the door. Outside, her black car was already waiting, engine idling quietly under the streetlamp. Her driver stood by, opening the door the moment she stepped outside.

Back inside, Tony the bartender finished drying a glass and glanced toward Jason, who was still seated.

"Damn," he muttered. "That's the most I've seen her talk to anyone."

"Really?" Jason said, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "You know who she is?"

Tony shook his head. "Hell if I know. She's not one to talk about herself."

Jason said nothing in return, eyes flicking toward the door she'd just walked out of.

If only Tony knew—Ms. Li was far more than she appeared. Efficient, composed, and fiercely loyal. She wasn't just some pretty face at the bar as most might thing, she was Roman Sionis' personal secretary. The inner circle. Trusted. Dangerous in her own right.

Jason slid a few bills onto the counter to cover his drinks and gave Tony a polite nod.

"I'll be on my way then."

He pushed away from the bar, stepping out into the cool Gotham night. The streets were quiet now, damp with leftover rain and the promise of something always lurking. He mounted his matte black dirt bike, revved the engine with a low growl, and tore off into the city, disappearing into the shadows like he belonged there.

Because maybe he did.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]


Li Xinyue.

Who the hell would've thought I'd run into her at that bar. Gotham's got a way of throwing people in your path when you least expect it.

Then again, it made a kind of sense—yeah, that place was just a few blocks from Janus Tower. I've stopped by there more than once after long nights running recon on Black Mask's operations, grabbing a drink and watching the scum of the city wash in and out like dirty tidewater.

Still, seeing her there—alone, sipping whiskey like she owned the place, that was unexpected.

She was damn sexy. No other way to put it. Not in a loud, flashy way, nothing desperate or cheap about her.

It was her posture, her presence, her control of the space around her. Like the real definition of what a secretary should look like—cool, clean lines, killer looks, and eyes that missed nothing.

Wouldn't shock me if Roman was hitting that on the side. I mean, I wouldn't blame him. You've got a woman that capable, that loyal, that tight to your operation? It'd be more surprising if nothing had happened between them.

Loyalty like that… it has a way of turning personal. Lines blur. Proximity becomes temptation. That kind of trust doesn't stay professional forever—not in this city.

But Li's more than eye candy behind a desk.

She's not just an assistant, not just a secretary with a good poker face. She's the damn backbone of Roman's empire. The hidden gear that turns the whole machine.

Every single deal, arms trades, dirty contracts, black market tech shipments, even off-the-books metahuman muscle—goes through her first.

Nothing gets to Roman without crossing her desk. She filters intel, routes resources, diffuses threats before they escalate. And when Roman's temper flares—which is pretty much every other hour, she's the one who steps in, smooths things over, speaks with enough calm and precision to salvage whatever negotiation he's about to blow up.

She's not just his voice—sometimes she is his mind.

And she watches his own people too.

Hell, she probably knows more about Roman's crew than Roman himself does. She runs surveillance on his lieutenants, scrubs data, tracks anomalies in behavior.

If there's a mole in the ranks, she's the one who sniffs them out before the blood hits the floor. Half of those bastards don't even realize they're being monitored. Some probably think they answer to Roman—truth is, they're feeding everything to her.

She manages the blackmail vault too. Psychological profiles, criminal records, hidden leverage. She's got files on every key player in the game—who they love, what they fear, who they'd kill, what they'd die for. Roman has the muscle, but Li? She's the scalpel.

And when the sun comes up?

She's walking the clean side of the street. CEO of Janus Cosmetics, which is used as a cover for his criminal activities, including smuggling and organized crime.

The name 'Janus' is fitting, as it references the two-faced Roman god, symbolizing the company's dual nature-legitimate on the surface but corrupt underneath.

Li shows up in business journals and charity galas, dressed in thousand-dollar power suits, shaking hands with the city's elite. She's the public face of Roman's blood-stained empire—smiling for the cameras while smuggling death through the docks. Makes it look effortless.

She's damn near untouchable.

And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about what she could do for me.

When I take down Roman—and I will—someone needs to take over his piece of Gotham's underworld.

Can't have chaos. Can't have desperate lieutenants scrambling for control and spilling innocent blood in the streets. I've got a vision for this city—order, control, structure.

Someone's gotta keep the territory in check while I reshape the system. She's perfect for that role. Smart, efficient, brutal when she needs to be.

Only problem? She might be loyal enough to go down with him. The kind that burns in the same fire as the man she serves, even when she knows the flames are coming.

Guess I'll have to wait and see.

Either way, I've got bigger things to handle right now. Too much on my plate.

Like Black Mask's latest shipment. It's coming in tomorrow night—fire arms, probably some illegal tech. Big one. And he has already staged a false drop point for probably Batman and his crew.

With any luck, the Bat and his merry band of self-righteous lunatics will waste the night chasing shadows while I intercept the real goods.

Bruce has been sniffing too close to Roman's business lately. Must've figured out something… or maybe he's finally cluing into my unwilling past with that freak Joker. Tch. The less I think about that son of a bitch, the better.

But if Bruce starts putting two and two together…

Whatever. I'll handle it.

It's due time he learns my identity.

I need to get my gear prepped, weapons locked and loaded. Gotham doesn't hand out wins—you've gotta carve them out with blood, grit, and a little bit of madness.

Time to get my head in the game.

- - -

[At The Batcave – An Hour Before the Designated Time]

The Batcave buzzed with low, mechanical hums. Dozens of monitors flickered across the main terminal, casting sharp glows against the stone walls and the polished black armor of the Batman suit.

The rhythmic clicking of keys echoed through the cavernous space, occasionally interrupted by the distant flutter of bats disturbed in the shadows overhead.

Dick Grayson stood beside the Batcomputer, fully geared in his Nightwing suit, the bold blue symbol stretched across his chest. He leaned casually against the console, arms crossed, but his sharp eyes never left the screen. He still carried that natural confidence—relaxed on the surface, but focused beneath.

"You sure he won't take the bait? If Black Mask changed the drop point to try and double-cross him, wouldn't Red Hood catch on?" Dick asked, watching the tracking data scroll across the screen.

Batman remained silent for a moment, eyes locked on the real-time satellite feed of Gotham's bay. His cape draped over one shoulder, the edges gently brushing the metal floor as he shifted forward.

"That was a clever move on Roman's part," he finally replied. "But if Red Hood were that easy to outmaneuver, we'd have brought him in already. No… he's too sharp for that. He'll stick to the original location."

"Then that means we've got him," Dick said, pushing off the console to tighten the straps on his gauntlets. "Tonight might finally be the night this whole Red Hood mystery ends."

Batman didn't answer. His gaze lingered on the screen, brows furrowed. There was a weight behind his silence, something deeper gnawing at him beneath the surface.

Dick picked up on it instantly.

"You're thinking about something else," he said, his tone dropping into something more serious. "What's wrong?"

Bruce's jaw tensed slightly. His fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn't type.

"The drop's scheduled to take place on a freighter. Open waters. If we confront him out there, he'll have an escape plan already in place. Maybe a second boat hidden from view, maybe underwater routes, maybe worse. I'm trying to figure out the most likely contingency he'd plan for."

Dick walked closer, now standing shoulder to shoulder with him. "You think he's going to slip away again?"

"If he does, it won't be because he's careless," Bruce muttered. "He's calculating. He's been a step ahead so far."

Dick shrugged, trying to lighten the tension. "He's good. But no one's perfect. Even he can't prepare for everything."

Bruce remained quiet, but something about the way his hands tightened at the console gave away his unease. His mind wasn't just on the drop.

It was on the man behind the mask.

"He wears a bat symbol," Bruce said at last, voice low and clipped. "He's not just out there killing criminals. He's wearing our symbol. That's not an accident."

"Yeah, I noticed that too," Dick said. "Pretty bold, considering he's breaking your one rule."

"It's not just that," Bruce continued, his eyes narrowing. "He's taunting us. But it's more than that—he knows things. Things only someone close to me would know. At the factory… when I saw him—"

Bruce trailed off, jaw flexing as the memory flickered back. That night at the ACE Chemicals site had shaken something in him. Seeing the symbol. Hearing his voice. That strange, heavy familiarity with the traumatic recall.

"I didn't push him for answers," Bruce admitted. "I was too caught up in everything else—Joker's origins, the symbolism of the place. But now… the more I think about it, the more it doesn't add up."

"He's wearing the bat. That means something," Dick said, arms folded, now fully serious. "He could've picked anything—any identity. But he chose this one. That doesn't scream random vigilante to me."

"No, it doesn't," Bruce agreed. "And that's why I can't shake the feeling that he knows exactly what we're going to do tonight. That he's already anticipated it."

"You thinking he laid a trap?"

"I'm thinking… he's not just some rogue playing dress-up. I'm thinking he might be trying to become more than Batman. To redefine what we stand for… on his own terms."

Dick exhaled slowly, the usual light sarcasm gone from his face now. "And by more, you mean—crossing the line."

Bruce nodded once, slowly. "Killing. He does what we won't. That's how he thinks he's making a difference."

For a few seconds, silence settled over them again. Only the low beeping from the console filled the air.

"Okay," Dick said finally, with that familiar flicker of determination. "Then we find out who he really is. And if he thinks he's worthy of that symbol—he better be ready to prove it."

Bruce turned slightly to face him. "Stay sharp. He's dangerous. And smart. But tonight, we end this."

Dick gave a short nod, rolling his shoulders to loosen up. "I've got your back, always."

Batman looked away from the screens, finally letting his eyes rest on his first protégé—not just as an ally, but as a son. No words needed.

Together, they turned toward the Batwing, the looming jet prepped and ready on the platform.

Tonight, they would face the man who wore their symbol.

And find out exactly why.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[On the Sea – Approximately A Mile Off Gotham's Shores]

The ocean stretched out like black glass, cold and quiet beneath the moonlight. Gentle waves lapped at the hull of a large cargo vessel anchored just off Gotham's coastline.

A few guards were stationed on deck, bundled in dark gear, scanning the waters with sharp eyes and tense postures. The rest of the manpower was positioned further back, waiting for the next phase of the operation.

Tonight's job was clean and simple, receive the shipment, then pass it off to the transport chopper. From there, the goods would be flown directly to Janus Tower, the towering facade of legitimacy that Black Mask operated from. The skyscraper gleamed in the distance like a false promise, hiding the rot festering beneath its corporate skin.

A low mechanical hum broke the stillness. In the distance, the sound of spinning rotors began to rise, growing louder as a sleek helicopter approached across the waves, cutting through the cold night air. The wind churned with its arrival, sweeping across the deck in short gusts.

One of the deckhands raised a flashlight and flicked it rapidly in a pattern—green and red lights flickering in sync, signaling a clear spot for landing on the ship's mid-deck. The chopper circled once, then descended slowly. The downwash kicked up a storm of loose tarps and dust as it touched down.

The side door slid open with a smooth hiss.

Only one man stepped out.

He wore a gray balaclava like the rest of the crew were instructed to for this job—no faces, no names, just shadows in the night. His flight suit was nondescript, tactical, and carried a quiet confidence in every movement.

"Just the pilot?" one of the guards asked, stepping forward, brows furrowed. The man with the flashlight came up beside him.

"Where the hell's the rest of your crew?" the second guard demanded, narrowing his eyes.

The masked figure paused at the edge of the deck, his gloved hands relaxed at his sides.

"I'm afraid they're all taking a little nap right now," he said flatly, voice muffled but unmistakably laced with sarcasm. "Let's get this thing wrapped up before anyone else decides to nap too." He was being literal, the helicopter crew had been knocked unconscious and hidden inside the spacious chopper.

The guards glanced at one another, visibly tense. Their hands inched toward their weapons, suspicion thick in the air like salt spray. (Pun intended for the salty sea breeze)

"Easy," the pilot added, sensing the shift. "Black Mask changed the plan last minute. You know how twitchy he gets. Didn't want a whole team drawing attention, so he sent me solo."

The two guards hesitated, exchanging looks.

"Never met the guy," the one with the flashlight muttered. "But we've heard enough to know he's a crazy son of a bitch."

They eventually lowered their hands and turned toward the hold.

"Fine. Let's get this done," the other said, leading the way to retrieve the shipment.

Minutes passed.

High above, slicing silently through the clouds, the Batwing emerged like a predatory bird. The jet hovered momentarily before two figures dropped from its belly—Batman and Nightwing—landing on the deck with precision.

Nightwing adjusted his escrima sticks as he landed, glancing around the deck. The cold sea breeze whipped his hair slightly as he took in the scene. "No Robin tonight?"

Batman's boots made a soft metallic clunk as he walked forward, eyes scanning the deck.

"He's got a science fair at school tomorrow," he replied, his voice as level as ever.

Nightwing gave a crooked smile, already crouching beside the downed helicopter crew. "Looks like we just missed him," he said, checking pulses. "They're alive. Knocked out cold, but alive."

Batman remained standing, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl. The unconscious bodies sprawled around the chopper said everything, this wasn't an ambush. It was executed with acute efficiency.

"Stay sharp," he ordered, moving toward the staircase leading below deck. "Let's clear the rest of the ship."

They descended quickly, the echo of their boots bouncing against steel walls. The interior corridors were dimly lit with flickering overhead lights, and the faint creak of the hull shifted with the waves.

They found more bodies. Same as above. Knocked out, not dead.

Nightwing crouched to inspect one, his brow furrowing. "He did this clean. No fatal hits, just pressure points. Intentional."

Before Batman could reply, a faint thumping sound started to rise from outside—rhythmic, growing louder.

"What's that?" Nightwing asked, looking up.

Batman's jaw tightened, and he turned without a word. They bolted back topside, emerging into the wind and noise just in time to see the helicopter rising off the deck.

Now airborne.

Behind the glass cockpit, the masked pilot had removed the gray balaclava—revealing the familiar red dome of the Red Hood.

He gave them a slow, lazy half-wave. Clearly mocking them with a smirk beneath his mask.

Batman reacted fast. He reached to his belt and hurled a disc—sleek, silver, and glowing faintly blue. A mini-EMP, designed to shut down the chopper's electronics instantly. It flew with perfect precision toward its target.

But Red Hood had already anticipated that move.

He tilted the chopper hard to the left with impeccable timing. The spinning rotor blades caught the disc mid-air, shredding it before it could reach the fuselage. Bits of sparking metal scattered into the dark waters below.

"See you around," Red Hood said into the mic, grinning beneath the helmet as he pulled the stick and climbed into the sky, veering back toward the Gotham skyline.

Nightwing clenched his fists. "We can't let him get away."

Batman said nothing. His focus had narrowed. He reached for his belt and tapped a control. A faint chime echoed from the Batwing hovering above. Responding to his command, it slowly descended and locked into position above them, the hatch opening mid-air.

The boat rocked gently beneath them, but Batman and Nightwing leapt aboard with practiced ease.

The chase was on. The Batwing tore through the cold Gotham air, skimming just above the crashing waves as it chased the stolen chopper.

The red glow of the city's skyline shimmered across the surface of the water, casting a menacing gleam beneath the clouds that threatened rain.

Inside the cockpit, Batman's hand hovered over the console. With a quick flick of his finger, a compact disk-like device launched from a hatch under the Batwing's chassis.

The projectile zipped through the air, striking the side of the helicopter with a mechanical hiss. It latched on tight, blinking red once… then twice… before discharging an electrical pulse that drained every motor, wire, and circuit within seconds.

The helicopter jerked mid-flight, the rotor blades stuttering and sputtering before freezing in place. Gravity took over, yanking the chopper down like an angry god swatting a fly out of the sky.

"Damn you, Bruce," Jason muttered under his breath, voice muffled by his helmet. His grip tightened around the controls as the chopper spiraled. "Gotta say… this is one hell of a family bonding experience. Then again, we've always been dysfunctional."

Through the rapidly closing windshield, he spotted a massive power pole looming in the distance. Live wires buzzed like agitated wasps in the wind. Just before impact, he launched himself out of the dying chopper, jacket fluttering behind him as he sailed toward the electrical cables.

With a gloved hand, he snagged one of the thick cords, tearing it free in a spray of sparks that lit up the night sky.

The helicopter slammed into the rocky shoreline a second later, exploding into a smoky blaze.
Gripping the wire like a trapeze artist, Red Hood swung himself across the sky in a wide arc, the current surging through his insulated gloves and boots. It was dangerous. It was reckless. But it worked.

He released mid-swing, twisting in the air before landing on a nearby rooftop in a shoulder roll that dispersed the impact.

Batman watched the entire maneuver from the Batwing with cold, calculating eyes. "Stay sharp," he ordered without looking. "He's not just skilled. He's fast."

"I'm always sharp," Nightwing replied, leaning over the console, visibly impressed by the aerial gymnastics. "But yeah... he's making us look like mall cops."

They dismounted the Batwing, landing softly on a nearby rooftop. Gotham below them was darker than usual. The grid had gone out across multiple blocks, thanks to Jason's impromptu power cable stunt.

Entire neighborhoods now lay in pitch-black silence. The only lights came from flickering backup generators, headlights of confused drivers, and the occasional phone screen held high by curious onlookers.

"Where is he?" Nightwing asked, scanning the rooftops, his eyes darting between buildings. "He's gotta be close."

Batman activated his thermal vision binoculars. A few seconds later, he spotted a single heat signature, agile and constantly in motion—leaping from rooftop to rooftop with almost joyful precision, as if the entire chase was some kind of nighttime playground obstacle course.
"Over there," Batman pointed. The chase was on.

The trio sprinted across the rooftops, vaulting vents and AC units, scaling ledges with fluid, practiced movements. Red Hood made it across a wide rooftop gap and crashed through the frame of a building still under construction.

Steel beams, tarps, and scaffolding made for a maze-like playground as Batman and his son stormed in behind him.

They chased him past buckets and building materials, the echo of their boots reverberating through the unfinished interior. Suddenly, Red Hood dove straight through an open window.

"What the hell?" Nightwing muttered, breath hitching.

They reached the window just in time to see Jason flipping through the air, back facing the ground, like some acrobat with a death wish. Mid-fall, he pulled a small canister he had grabbed from the building mid-chase.

A welding gas capsule—tossed it upward, then, in the same breath, drew a sidearm and shot it.
"Get bac—!" Batman's warning was cut off by the explosion, which ripped through the air in a fiery burst. The shockwave forced them both backward into the building. Dust and glass showered around them.

"He's good," Nightwing grunted, rubbing his shoulder.

"Nothing we haven't seen before," Batman replied, already moving.

They leapt back out the window, grapple lines shooting out to connect with the next rooftop. They spotted Jason a split-second later, darting through the darkness, just a flickering red blur now.

Down below, Gotham slept. Clueless. Powerless. Unaware of the battle unfolding above their heads.

On the next rooftop, Red Hood landed and readied to leap again, but was met with a surprise. Sliding across the gravel, knees bent and sword drawn, Robin swung low, aiming to cut off Jason's escape—literally.

Jason vaulted mid-swing, flipping over the blade with an effortless twist, landing right at the edge of the building. His boots barely scraped the ledge.

Using the momentum, he twisted back and launched himself toward the uninvited guest, driving a fist into Robin's face with brutal efficiency. He used just enough strength, or else he would have broken the kid's jaw.

"Whoa!" Nightwing caught Robin before he went tumbling off the roof.

"Robin!" Batman called, uncharacteristically shaken—yet stoic to some sense. "Unhand me!" Damian growled, pushing away from Dick's grip.
"There's no time."

Batman launched another grapple and zipped downward just in time to catch Jason's next move as the others caught up just in time to see Red Hood perform another freefall. As he descended, Batman fired a steel cable at Jason's leg.

The cable whipped toward its target—only for Jason to twist mid-air, reaching behind his waist to draw a combat knife from the sheath tucked behind his belt. In one fluid motion, he sliced through the wire just before it could tighten around him.

"What the—!?" Nightwing exclaimed.
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. That cable wasn't standard gear, it was reinforced.
While they were still processing what Red Hood had just pulled off, they kept up the chase.

The next building ahead was too far to leap across. If Jason didn't have a plan, they'd have him cornered at the ledge before he could even think about scaling down the wall.
Or so they thought.

Red Hood suddenly picked up speed—charging toward the ledge at full sprint.
"What the hell is he—" Nightwing started, but Jason leapt before he could finish.
He threw himself across a ridiculous distance at a terrifying height. There was no clear landing, and the gap was too wide–too insane to consider.

Actually, he was insane—there's no denying that. Perks of the many things death and a whole lot of trauma would do to one's sanity.

Even if he had a grapple gun, the outer wal/ of the next building was so worn down it would mess with the hook's ability to catch.
But Jason didn't even bother reaching for it.
Instead, he raised his knife in the air and angled his descent.

Red Hood slammed the blade into the building's wall and used it to slide down the wall, sparks trailing behind him as he glided along the surface.

"He's very good," Nightwing muttered—then dove off the ledge right after him, fierce and fast like a hawk with its eyes on a target.

As he caught up, his suit deployed. Fabric stretched out from under his arms, shifting his gear into wing-mode mid-air. He swooped in, aiming to snatch Jason while he was still gliding.

But Jason saw him coming.

He kicked Off- the wall and hurled himself at Nightwing in mid-air, both of them suspended at an unholy height above the city.

Nightwing braced himself mid-air and blocked the kick with his arms just in time—but Jason was already flipping off the impact, back toward the building he'd just leapt from.

He reached for another knife mid-fall, slammed it back into the wall, and kicked off again—this time toward the nearest wall to control his descent.

Nightwing was thrown off for a second, struggling to recover in the air, flailing slightly to regain his bearings.

Batman had already hooked his grapple to a solid ledge and was about to swing in to help, but he was too far behind.

Jason dropped through the roof of a shop below. A split second later, Nightwing slammed into the same roof with a rough landing.
By the time Batman dropped into the building, all he saw was Nightwing groaning as he got back on his feet. Red Hood was gone.

No sign of him.

But there was a sound. A quiet beeping, steady and ominous.

"Move!" Batman barked as his eyes locked on a bomb timer counting down above the shattered storefront.

They dove for cover.

BOOM!

Debris rained down as fire bloomed across the shop.

Batman shielded Nightwing under one of the store's aisles. He grabbed Dick by the arm, pulled it over his shoulders, and helped him up through the smoke and rubble.

As they staggered out of the burning wreckage, a strange sound could be heard through the smoke—

The low purr of a motorcycle engine, revving near the train tracks up ahead.

There he was.

Red Hood, calm as ever, mounting a sleek red motorcycle. Posture relaxed.

Behind him, the distant roar of an approaching train echoed louder with each passing second.
Jason looked back once, helmet tilting. "You're a little rusty, but you haven't lost your touch, Bru—"
The train sped by, cutting off the rest of his sentence. By the time it passed, he was gone.
Batman wasted no time. He grappled onto the moving train, scanning the only car he could possible have driven his bike into. But Jason had vanished. Just... gone.

No bike skid marks. No gear left behind. No clues.

"We lost him," he said quietly, stepping back as Nightwing and Robin caught up. "It's insane to even think he made his way onto a moving train with a bike." Nightwing chimmed in.

"Then how do you explain his disappearance? There aren't any skid marks or trail to follow." Damian replied as all three of them moved to disperse.

He walked ahead, arms crossed, knowing full well there was a lecture coming—and it wouldn't be a short one.

Batman tapped a button on his belt, signaling the Batmobile to their location.

"So... science fair, huh?" Nightwing asked sarcastically with a smirk tugged to the side of his lips. Batman gave nothing in reply, except from a brief glare.

"It's been three years," he said, tone low. "Still don't listen."

"Rebellious kid. Raised by assassins. And let's be honest—you're not exactly the soft and fuzzy type," Dick replied.

Batman said nothing, just glared.

"Yeah. Never mind." The Batmobile pulled up, Its sleek frame roared toward them, headlights cutting through the dark night, stopping with a mechanical hiss as the doors lifted open. They slid inside and drove back to the cave.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Damian was already waiting at the Batcave. Still in full gear—mask off—arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.

"You weren't supposed to be out tonight," Batman said, his voice calm but edged with warning.

"I finished early. Figured I could back you up."

"Well... he got away." Nightwing said, peeling off his mask. Batman's glare silenced them both. "You disobeyed orders."

"I—"

"Enough."

Batman turned to the computer and pulled up the night's footage.

They all watched in silence, this time catching details they'd missed during the chase.

"Look at that spacing," Nightwing pointed out. "He's leading us."

Batman squinted at the screen, pausing right when Jason twisted and cut the cable mid-air.

"He's fast," Robin muttered. "Too fast for the average man. You think he's a meta?"
"It's possible," Batman admitted.

"It's clear our boy here has some skills. He's been trained, really well I must say." He said, watching as the footage showed when Batman almost had him at the ends of bis cables.

"Like right there." Dick pointed out as the footage slowed down just in time to show Red Hood cutting off Batman's cable.

"He sliced that cable off his ankle before it tensed around it," he emphasized. "You don't just do that it has to be practiced."

"He's not just skilled, but well equipped too." Batman added.

"What do you mean?" Dick asked. Batman turned to him as he looked at Dick dead in the eye; "How many knives do you know that can cut my cable?"

Everyone slowly turned and stared at the paused screen. A new realization settled in.

Red Hood wasn't just dangerous. He was prepared. Every move must have been deliberate.

"I'm off," Batman said, grabbing his coat. "Damian, bed. You need rest."

"As if. I could present my project half-asleep."

Batman stared. Deep down, he wanted to throw the kid over his knee and introduce him to the disciplinary side of a utility belt.
"Alfred's prepared your room," he told Dick.

With that, Batman disappeared into the shadows, but one thought kept turning over in his mind.

Something about tonight didn't sit right.
And until he figured it out, he'd be watching that tape over and over again.
No matter how long it took.

Even after Bruce had left the Batcave for the night, the space didn't fall into silence. Instead, the subtle hum of technology and the faint tapping of fingers on a keyboard echoed through the cavernous underground.

Massive screens lit up the cave's otherwise shadowy vastness in a cool blue hue. The scent of motor oil, aged stone, and reinforced rubber filled the air. It was Gotham's subterranean heart, and tonight, it still had two occupants.

Damian sat hunched in the main chair, face illuminated by the glow of the central monitor, fingers gliding across the keyboard as he scanned live security feeds and chatter.

The youngest Robin's brow was furrowed in fierce concentration, his lips set in a hard line—still pissed about how he screwed up his chance at getting Red Hood even after he disobeyed his father to take that action. The thought of them dancing to the tune of someone else was quite…prickly.

But the silence didn't last long.

Footsteps approached—light, casual, rhythmic. Then came the familiar voice.

"I know he can be restrictive at times, but you really should learn to follow orders," Dick Grayson said as he casually leaned against the side of the Batcomputer console. "He is your father, Damian. Bruce only does what he thinks is right… especially when it comes to you."

Damian didn't even glance at him. He rolled his eyes with a groan and folded his arms across his chest, spinning the chair around slowly to face his older brother. "Oh, please. Spare me the parent-teacher conference, Grayson."

Unbothered, Dick chuckled and stood upright. "You know what? Since you've got so much attitude and apparently energy to burn, how about we put that to good use?" He pulled out his escrima sticks with a casual flourish. "A little sparring session, for old times' sake."

Damian raised a single brow, unimpressed. "You want me to waste time playing with sticks?"

"You could think of it as training," Dick shrugged. "Who knows, maybe it'll help remind you that you're not nearly as good as you think you are."

A dry, unimpressed scoff escaped Damian as he turned back to the monitor. "Pfft. As if."

Dick smirked, stepping closer, and lightly tapped one of the escrima sticks against Damian's shoulder. "What's the matter? Scared you'll lose again—for the hundredth time?"

The stick didn't even hit that hard, but it struck exactly where it needed to. Damian's jaw tensed. He spun around fast, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. "Fuck off."

He swung, fast and clean, aiming to slice across Dick's midsection. Dick barely stepped back in time, bringing one escrima stick up to deflect the blade's edge with a sharp clack. He danced backward a few feet, keeping space between them.

"I don't need to be trained by a circus clown," Damian spat, adjusting into a sharp combat stance. "My grandfather trained me. I was raised by the League of Assassins. My training is beyond anything you've ever—"

Before he could finish that declaration, he lunged, sword cutting through the air in a silver blur aimed at Dick's torso. Dick pivoted, sidestepping with easy nonchalance, and flipped backward. Damian was fast to follow up with a low strike toward the legs, but Dick vaulted over it with a clean, aerial backflip and landed light on his feet.

The fight kicked off in earnest. The sound of steel meeting hardened polycarbonate echoed in the Batcave, sharp and rhythmic like a deadly metronome.

Dick kept a playful grin on his face, spinning his escrima sticks between his fingers like batons at a parade. His footwork was light, agile and graceful like a dancer. The more amused he seemed, the more visibly furious Damian became.

It felt like mockery. Like a deliberate insult to everything Damian believed made him lethal.

He was the heir of the Demon. He had been molded from birth into a weapon sharper than any blade in the League's armory. He had fought in snow-covered wastelands, survived blood trials in deep mountain caverns, and had taken life before he had lost his first baby tooth. He was danger.

And here Dick was—laughing.

Damian's face twisted with rage. He swung for Dick's torso, aiming to end the dance. But Dick dived low, rolled across the floor, and Damian wasted no time. He reacted immediately, leaping after him and bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead arc, fully intending to split Dick's head open if he didn't move.

But Dick moved. His escrima sticks came up in a flash and caught the descending blade with a loud crack, halting it just inches above his skull.

"Well, I was trained by Bruce Wayne," Dick said with an easy grin as he slowly pushed upward from his crouch. "And every time your grandpa squared up with him, Bruce handed Ra's al Ghul's five-hundred-year-old ass back to him on a silver platter."

The smugness in his voice only pushed Damian deeper into fury.

"Just like I'm handing yours to you now."

"You—!" Damian snarled.

His foot lashed out and caught Dick in the ribs. The strike forced a grunt out of him and made him stumble sideways.

"We'll see about that," Damian growled.

He broke their locked weapons and moved in, his elbow rising swiftly in an uppercut. Dick bent backward in a limbo-like motion, barely dodging. He dropped to his hands and executed a sweeping leg kick, catching Damian's ankles and knocking him to the floor.

A sly smirk crept across Dick's lips. "Careful. You've got school in the morning. Let's not get too bruised up or Alfred's going to have a hard time doing makeup."

Damian, already back on his feet, growled and raised his sword again. "Hold," Dick said, stepping off toward the combat platform in the cave—a circular ring raised above the cave floor, used for more focused training.

Damian followed, his face a picture of annoyance, eyes narrowed with focused irritation.

They circled each other in the arena like wild cats. Damian moved first, sword arcing through the air. Dick parried with his escrima sticks, blow for blow, matching his speed. A swipe aimed for Damian's head missed by inches as the boy bent backward. Dick followed with a sweep for his feet, but Damian flipped backward out of reach.

Dick went airborne, descending with an overhead strike, but Damian blocked with his blade, sparks flying from the impact. Using his compact frame to his advantage, Damian launched forward, foot aimed directly at Dick's throat.

Dick raised both sticks in a cross, catching the kick and deflecting it. Damian sprang off the blocked kick and aimed a spinning side-kick at Dick's face.

Caught off guard by the speed, Dick ducked, twisted, and shot out a kick from his crouched position. It was aimed for the solar plexus, fast and brutal. Damian blocked with the flat of his sword, bracing himself—but the sheer force knocked him back.

Dick advanced, arrogant strides telegraphing every bit of the confidence he had.

"You're sloppy," he said, twirling his sticks like a showman.

"No, I'm uninterested," Damian snapped.

'This fucking brat,' Dick thought with a tight jaw.

"Well, better get your head in the game."

Dick came at him again, strikes flowing with fluidity, relentless. Damian blocked and parried, but the pressure kept building. Soon, he was cornered at the edge of the platform. With a grunt, he leapt off. Dick followed without hesitation, chasing him across the Batcave.

Their duel snaked around the cave's massive stair rail system. Damian moved with the likes of an assasin, agile and unpredictable, his sword dancing with precision. Dick matched him beat-for-beat, running the rail like it was a balance beam.

Back on level ground, they clashed again. Dick swung a kick into Damian's side, but the boy caught it mid-air and retaliated with a strike to his other leg. Dick hit the ground with a hard grunt, only to be slammed into the cold, reinforced steel floor as Damian pressed his advantage.

Grabbing Damian by the collar, Dick pulled him close with a kick to the chest and tossed him overhead. Damian rolled on landing and sprang up like a cat.

But Dick was faster. He lunged with a direct blow, missed, but with that momentum he transitioned into a cat wheel and grabbed Damian's cape. With a quick backflip, he yanked the cape forward and covered his face.

This led to Dick catching Damian in a chokehold and slamming his face into the nearby glass casing—the one holding Dick's original Robin suit.

'Fuck avoiding his face, nothing some ice pack and a lot of makeup can't cover.' The thoughts that marinated in the darkest parts of Dick's mind.

With that, punch after punch landed into the fabric-covered face. Then he twisted Damian's arm behind him, pressing his face harder against the glass.

"You really are just a ball of ego, aren't you?" Damian shot at him, pissed and irritated as fuck. "The pure and perfect Dick Grayson. The first Robin."

Dick pressed harder, forcing Damian to look directly at the red, green, and yellow costume behind the glass.

It wasn't just a beatdown anymore—it was a message: 'You'll never measure up.'

He leaned in, voice low. "Based on everything I'm seeing… I'm the only real Robin." Dick said.

That one hit Damian where it hurt.

"You're just some lost little orphan he took pity on," Damian hissed, voice sharp with venom.

Dick blinked. That landed deeper than it should've. His grip loosened.

"But I'm blood."

In one fluid motion, Damian stepped on the glass casing, kicked off it, and flipped over Dick's head. He spun in the air, struck Dick's hip mid-rotation, and came down swinging.

Dick blocked, but Damian landed a punishing blow—right to his groin.

"ARGH—!"

Dick staggered, eyes wide, pain blooming from his gut as Damian followed up with a brutal combo. Left. Right. Knee to the chin.

Then—bam—a tiger claw technique, straight under the chin, snapped Dick's head back and sent him flying over the rail, crashing down onto the floor below.

"I'm his son," Damian declared, chest heaving as he turned and walked away, leaving his blade behind.

Dick lay groaning, one hand on his jaw, the other clutching his ribs. "You certainly are," he muttered under his breath.

As Damian passed by the stairwell, Alfred appeared, holding a cold drink and a cloth napkin. He gave a slow clap. "Excellent form, Master Damian. Though I dare say, a bit excessive."

Dick sat up, rubbing his jaw. "It's been a couple years, but I still can't believe Bruce actually has a kid. I mean—after all those lectures about using a robber, he ends up with a child."

Alfred gave a dry smile. "Well, Master Dick, he is the offspring of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul."

"Right. Exactly." Dick deadpanned, catching the sarcasm.

Damian still hadn't gone through the full extent of Bruce Wayne's training—not yet. But what most people didn't realize was that Ra's al Ghul had already forged a soldier in him. A weapon sharp enough to go toe-to-toe with Batman in hand-to-hand combat, maybe even better than Bruce himself could've imagined.

But the real kicker? There was someone else out there who had the best of both worlds—trained by Bruce and by Ra's. That was Red Hood. A soldier crafted in trauma and fury, and molded by the two most dangerous men in his life.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Roman Sionis's POV]

"What the fuck are you telling me right now, Li?" Roman growled, his voice jagged with rage as he paced back and forth across the polished concrete floor of his office. The soles of his shoes hit with impatient weight, echoing in the high-ceilinged room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Gotham's fog-choked skyline.

Ms. Li stood on the other side of his desk, calm and composed as ever, her tailored suit crisp, tablet in hand. She adjusted her thin-rimmed glasses and answered without flinching. "The main shipment was hit, sir. The crew found a crowbar left at the drop zone on the boat. It was him."

Roman froze mid-step, lips parting in disbelief. "You mean to tell me he didn't even meet the Fearsome Fucking Four? I moved product and weapons to that fake location just for them to catch this bastard. That was supposed to be his grave, not a goddamn ghost town. And now you're telling me he found the real drop?"

"Yes," she replied, swiping across her screen. "He bypassed the trap entirely."

Roman dragged a hand down his masked face and spun back toward her. "How the fuck did he even find out about the chopper and the boat? We got a rat?"

Ms. Li kept her tone clinical, despite the storm of fury in front of her. "No clear indication of a leak yet, sir. The crew on board reported blacking out—no pain, no noise, no warning. They just… dropped. But the pilot gave us something more. He said someone disguised like one of ours climbed into the chopper, probably hidden beneath the cargo tarp."

Roman paused, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stared at her. "Say that again."

"The pilot said he was flying when he felt cold steel against the back of his skull. Said the guy looked like one of ours, uniform and all. Before he could react, the guy forced the autopilot on, yanked him out of the cockpit, and then—suddenly, numbness. He passed out like the others, just… lights out. No pain. Woke up with the rest, all of them dumped on the deck of the boat."

Roman cocked an eyebrow, eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of goddamn ninja movie?"
He turned away, muttering curses as he ran both hands through his slicked-back hair, pacing like a lion locked in a cage.

It took him a moment, but he finally stopped and looked back at her—this woman who somehow had the balls to bring him bad news straight, no sugarcoating. He respected that, even if it fed his rage.

"They all tell the same story?" he asked, tone simmering.

"Not entirely," Li replied, her voice steady as she flicked to another report. "Everyone on the chopper had nearly identical experiences. But the men already stationed on the boat? They said they saw someone dressed like pick-up crew, but just when they got suspicious—bam, out cold. He got them before they could move."

Roman's expression darkened like a thundercloud loomed above him, his voice rising. "He's just one fucking guy!" His arms flailed as he gestured wildly, knocking a metal paperweight off his desk.

"One guy who's now hijacked three of my drops, completely avoided the trap I had set for him with the Fearsome Four, and now he's making me look like a goddamn fool."

He clenched his fists, breathing heavy. The room seemed to shrink around him. He turned toward Li again, his tone lower now, colder, edged with something venomous.

"No more chasing him. No more trying to block him. We set a more assuring trap like a rat to cheese. We know exactly the kind of bait he can't ignore."

Li didn't react, but her brow twitched slightly at his implication. She cleared her throat. "Perhaps… you should bring this to Batman first. Before we commit more resources and risk another loss. He might—"

Roman slammed his fist down on the desk with a force that made the floor tremble. "Absolutely fucking not. If anything, I think that self-righteous bastard wants this punk out there doing his dirty work. Not wanting to get his own gloves bloody."

Li paused for a beat, expression unreadable as she considered the possibility. "It… might explain the lack of interference," she admitted quietly.

Roman dropped into his leather seat, the creak of the chair barely cutting through the growl in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on her with icy conviction.

"You know what to do," he said, voice low but with eager intention. "Get the Fearsome Hand of Four prepped. No more fucking around. I want him buried."

"Yes, sir," she said, already turning on her heel toward the exit.

Roman watched her move, then called out before she reached the door, voice full of malice.

"And tell them—bring me his head and helmet."

Without another word, Li nodded and walked out, the soft click of the closing door leaving Roman alone in his rage, the city lights beyond the window flickering like they too feared what was coming.

Would Roman finally get his hands on Red Hood? Or would Red Hood once again thwart his plan to capture him and force him towards the path he have always wanted Black Mask to take, and deliver Joker in a fucking silver platter?

- - -

[Wayne Manor – Early Morning]

The grandfather clock ticked quietly in the foyer above the Batcave, casting long shadows across the floor as the morning light crept through the tall windows. The manor was still, aside from the faint clatter of Alfred preparing breakfast in the kitchen and the occasional rustle of a suit jacket as Bruce Wayne moved through the hallway like an angry dad in expensive fabric, cause he was.

Without the knowledge of his boys, he had gone back to revisit and investigate their chase against Red Hood that night.

He'd returned just before dawn—cape shredded at the edges, boots soaked with seawater, and his expression unreadable. Another encounter with Jason, another empty-handed chase. The chopper was gone, the cargo vanished, and Red Hood had made it out again with that same smug wave.

And now, on top of it all, his sons had beaten the hell out of each other.

Bruce stopped just outside Damian's room. The door was slightly ajar. A quiet clink of glass came from inside.

He pushed it open slowly.

Damian stood by his bathroom mirror, shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder. A sizable bruise had bloomed beneath his right eye, already dark purple.

Another mottled bruise curled across his ribs. His knuckles were raw. His posture was straight, proud as ever, but there was a stiffness in the way he breathed.

Alfred now stood behind him with a small kit open on the sink after rounding up his kitchen duties, dabbing an ice-cold bag gently beneath the boy's eye. He worked methodically, like he was patching up a soldier before another battle. Which, in a way, he was.

Bruce crossed his arms. "I told you both to get to bed."

Damian didn't flinch. "He instigated it."

Alfred raised a brow. "Master Dick offered you a spar. You accepted. Then drew a sword."

"He insulted me."

"You insulted him first."

"He questioned my loyalty."

"You questioned his legitimacy."

Damian turned around sharply. "He's not even blood—"

Bruce's voice shut him up like a whip; "Enough."

The silence that followed was thick.

"You're going to school. Science fair. You remember?"

Damian scoffed. "You want me to parade myself like this? I look like a thug."

Alfred stepped in before Bruce could respond. "You look like a child who lost a sparring match. Which is far more honorable than a child who refuses to learn from one."

Damian grumbled something in Arabic under his breath.

Alfred, unbothered, opened a small velvet pouch from his kit and produced a few slim bottles of professional-grade concealer. He lined them up like surgical tools.

"I've covered shrapnel wounds, black eyes, and worse. Your face will be pristine, Master Damian. Though I suggest you avoid harsh lighting and any mirrors in the cafeteria."

Damian rolled his eyes but stood still as Alfred dabbed the makeup expertly beneath his swollen eye.

Bruce stood by the doorway, watching. He could see it, the tension in Damian's jaw, the silent fury barely masked by that Wayne-bred stoicism. But there was pain there, too. Not just physical. Something deeper. Something bruised and never quite healed, maybe from Talia, maybe from the League, maybe from him.

He should've stepped in last night. Stopped the fight before it started.

And part of him had wanted to see it play out, see how far they'd push each other. Maybe test the edges of what kind of Robin Damian really was.

Bruce exhaled. Quietly.

"Do you want me to talk to your teacher?" he asked.

Damian didn't answer at first. Alfred kept dabbing, blending in a bit of warmth into the skin tone.

"I'm not weak," Damian muttered finally. "They'll ask what happened."

"Then tell them you fell."

"I don't lie."

"Then tell them you fought your brother."

Bruce stepped closer, arms uncrossed now. His voice softened, just a little.

"You're not weak, Damian. But you don't have to win every fight to prove something."

Damian tilted his chin up defiantly. "Maybe I do. He was Robin before me. So was Todd. And Grayson. All of them. And yet I'm the one who carries your blood, and still I have to fight for it."

"You don't have to fight us," Bruce said quietly.

Damian looked at him through the mirror, not directly. "Then stop making me."

Alfred placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, just a firm press of reassurance. "Right. Off you go. Your project on cryogenic cell stasis awaits. Hopefully it will be slightly less violent than last night's biology lesson."

Damian nodded, grabbed his backpack from the corner, and marched out, head high.

As the door closed behind him, Bruce lingered. His gaze drifted to the makeup kit still sitting open, a smudge of concealer staining one of the brushes.

"Did I do the right thing?" he asked, not looking at Alfred.

"You gave him a home," Alfred replied, closing the kit. "Now you have to remind him he doesn't have to fight for it every day."

Bruce said nothing. Just watched the sun finally stretch across the manor's long hallway, lighting up old portraits.

"Coffee, Master Wayne?"

Bruce nodded absently. "Stronger than usual."

Alfred was already on his way down the hall. "I assumed as much."

- - -

The gymnasium was buzzing.

Tables lined with tri-fold boards and half-finished projects filled the space like a cluttered battlefield of middle school ambition. Volcano models bubbling, solar system mobiles spinning lazily, electric circuits zapping on cue. Kids hustled back and forth in wrinkled uniforms, trying to hold it together under the weight of parental expectations and last-minute glue disasters.

At the far end, under the sharp white lights of the upper gym, stood Damian Wayne.

He looked like he didn't belong. Probably because he didn't. Unlike the rest of the other kids his age, he was an assasin—a killer.

His blazer was pristine, tie perfectly knotted, and his black shoes reflected the gymnasium fluorescents. But there was a faint stiffness in how he stood beside his board. His right eye, carefully concealed with Alfred's expert touch, still carried the faintest shadow of purple beneath the surface. You had to be looking closely but it was there. Especially if you knew what to look for.

A few kids stared. Some whispered.

He heard them all.

"Did he get jumped?"

"Probably got into a fight, you know he is a very violent person."

"Nah, I heard he's in a gang—"

"Told you he's weird."

Damian ignored them. His board stood behind him—Cryogenic Suspension: Viability for Human Organ Preservation and Revival. Bold letters. Organized data. A working model of a cryochamber mock-up stood beside it, cold vapor hissing lightly from the nozzle of a Carbon dioxide tank.

"Next group—Damian Wayne?"

He stepped forward with military demeanor.

Clearing his throat, he launched into his presentation. His voice was calm, crisp, and matter-of-fact, nothing like the nervous mumblings of the others. He spoke of molecular degradation, cellular stasis, brain signal recovery latency—his language was sharp, deliberate, even intimidating.

The teachers nodded, impressed. One whispered to the other, "He sounds like he's already in college."

But Damian could feel the stares. Not from the judges, from the others. Watching. Whispering. Judging.

He fought the heat rising in his chest. Not from embarrassment, from restraint. This wasn't a battlefield. There was no blade in his hand. Just facts and data and judgment.

Still, his hands remained clenched behind his back until the end.

When the last question was asked, something about ethical implications, Damian answered with practiced ease, gave a sharp nod, and stepped back.

Applause followed, polite and brief.

But as he returned to his table, he didn't bask in it. He didn't smile.

He didn't need their approval.

He had done what was required. And more than anything, he wanted to be gone.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

Flashes of Jason without the hood on—darting across Gotham's rain-slick rooftops bare footed, while being chased relentlessly by men dressed in League outfit and without faces, ripped through his unconscious mind like some cursed highlight reel. They had nothing but a black void around their faces.

His body twitched and turned beneath tangled sheets, reacting like someone
locked in a fever dream. The tension wouldn't break—until the Joker's face surfaced in the fog of his nightmare.

His eyes snapped open like a crackhead jolted by withdrawal, wide and bloodshot.
Jason shot up, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths. The air in the room felt stale, thick with the leftover humidity from last night's sweat-soaked torment.

His sheets clung to his skin like damp clothes after a storm, the mattress beneath him sticky with the evidence of whatever the hell his body had just been through. It felt like he'd just finished an intense workout or wrestled a demon in his sleep—hell, maybe both.

"Fuck…" he muttered, his voice hoarse as he raised a shaky hand to his head. It ached. Not like a sharp migraine, but a dull, swaying sort of ache—like the come-down of a mild hangover mixed with the sluggish drag of being drugged.

He felt weird. Off. Not sick enough to be concerned, just... off-kilter.

Disoriented.

Food and water might help—always did.
Groaning, Jason rubbed at his eyelids and wiped his hand down his face, trying to shake off the lingering weight of sleep. It was like waking up after getting roofied—except he'd been conscious the entire damn time, living every minute of last night's chase in real time. But his recollection of last night's chase was a bit…vague, almost meshed up with the recollection of his nightmare.

He needed to be grounded. To feel something real. So, naturally, he reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back to clear his vision.

"Why does it feel like I was both the driver and the passenger?" he muttered, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the cracked mirror by the wall.

His eyes were sunken, his jaw tight with tension. A hint of stubble lined his face, and a faint bruise ghosted along his collarbone—remnants from last night's rooftop escapade.

"Damn... I slept through the whole day," he mumbled, yawning as he swung his legs off the bed. His joints cracked. "Body's really putting that nocturnal factor to good use, huh?" he added dryly, stretching as he made his way to the kitchen.

The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the orange hue spilling through the cracked blinds. Dust hung lazily in the air, swirling in tiny golden orbs with every step he took across the wooden floor. The hum of the ceiling fan did little to cool the place; it still felt like a sauna.

And lately he's been thinking this place has served it's purpose of helping him lay low until he hot his bearings, now he could get a better place. Hopefully one with the perks this one provides.

He opened the fridge, the cool burst of air a welcome relief as he grabbed a bottle of water and scanned the shelves for something easy—pulled out a pack of bread, some cold cuts, cheese, mustard, and whatever else he could throw into a half-decent sandwich.

Hunger gnawed at him like a pit bull. He was parched too, the kind of thirst that felt like his throat had been scrubbed with sandpaper. That sweat-drenched wake-up call definitely didn't help.

As he prepped a few sloppy but satisfying sandwiches, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a long sip, letting the citrus bite bring some clarity back to his senses. One sandwich down, he munched while still making more, movements slow but steady—like his body was remembering how to function properly again.

From where he stood, he could see the TV across the room. The news was on—some talking head blabbing about last night's power outage and the mysterious chopper crash in the Narrows. Jason barely looked. Instead, he pulled out his phone, scrolling idly while he chewed.

Good. The bank transactions had gone through. His new 'business partners' were keeping up their end of the deal. Smart.

Because if they hadn't, he would've paid them a visit they wouldn't forget.

Now that he had them under control, it was time to think ahead. He needed someone in the government. Someone with enough influence to move things if needed. Bruce had Gordon. He needed someone too.

Digging up dirt on politicians... Not exactly what he thought he'd be doing when he came back to Gotham, but these were strange times. And politicians always had dirt—piles of it, just waiting to be unearthed. All he had to do was find one with real sway over the cops.

The mayor. Perfect target.

A guy like that—smiling for cameras, kissing babies, pretending to give a damn—there was no way he was clean.

Jason would find the cracks in the facade.
"Wait… does this even align with my goal for Black Mask and Joker?" he asked himself aloud, chewing slowly now as the thought rolled through his mind.

He leaned against the counter, lost in thought.

"No... I'd need a connection like that for Joker."

He nodded to himself. "Stay the course. Get to Joker through Black Mask. Clean house. Then? Then I can introduce my crowbar to Roman's thick skull."

Jason grinned at the thought—dark, satisfied. The Joker, the freak who got off on pain and chaos, would get exactly what he craved. And more.

And if Ms. Li didn't flip on Black Mask and seize his throne, he'd have to turn to Big Lou and Sofia—have their families carve up Roman's territory cleanly. No messy gang war. Just a fast, silent power shift. Better than letting the vultures tear the city apart.

Finishing his last sandwich and sipping the rest of his juice, Jason wiped his mouth and set the glass down with a clink. His headache had finally dulled—probably just dehydration after all. Still, something inside him felt... foggy. Unsettled.

He knew the cure.

He made his way toward the bench press in the corner of his apartment, tucked between crates of ammo and half-repaired weapons.

Time to sweat this out the old-fashioned way.

He loaded the bar with heavy weights, the clink of iron plates echoing through the room. Then he laid back on the bench and wrapped his hands around the cold barbell. With a deep breath, he pushed it off the rack.

It lifted with almost no effort. Jason blinked. "What the fuck...?" he muttered, gently lowering it back onto the supports.

He tried again.

Thirty-five reps—clean, fast, fluid—no tremble, no struggle. That was a weight he used to max out at twelve reps on. Twelve.

And even then, it left his arms burning for the next set. Now? He could've done fifty and still gotten up for a jog.

Ever since coming back to Gotham, his body had felt... different. Stronger. Faster. Almost like he was pushing past normal human limits. The kind of physical boost you'd expect from a guy like Deathstroke. Only... Jason was stronger. Faster. Sharper.

But it has been subtle, until now. He'd ignored it at first. Brushed it off as adrenaline, or maybe muscle memory from all those brutal League training sessions.
But now?

It wasn't going away.

And the night of the rooftop chase—that was the proof. His speed, his agility—it had reached a peak he'd never experienced. Every leap, every twist across the skyline felt effortless. And he hadn't even been winded.

Even when Damian came flying out of the shadows with his little assassin tricks and went for the legs, Jason moved on pure instinct. His punch had come fast, hard—too hard. He had to pull it back last second, tone it down. He hadn't wanted to kill Ra's al Ghul's grandson. Or Talia's son. Or... Bruce's.

That fact still sat heavy in his chest.

Even with this power coursing through him, he wasn't invincible. A dead man is still a dead man. And Roman? That bastard would sell a piece of his own soul to get Jason's head on a spike.

So no—this wasn't just a gift. It could be a liability. He has to study himself and learn to control and adapt his new stats.

But one thing gnawed at him more than anything else; 'How did I know to pull my punch?' That question stuck with him, burrowing deeper.

Because the answer... probably lived in the three missing years of his life. The dark, blank space he couldn't recover.

'The closest I know about such attribute, is that they are results of the Mirakuru serum. I do not recall ever being experimented on, not even to save my life. Or could I? Some twisted resurrection experiment after I washed up dying off the coast of Lian Yu?

Or was it responsible for his missing memory.'

He didn't know.

But he intended to find out.

- - -

[Batcave]

Later that evening, Bruce stood in full Batman gear, the cape resting heavily across his shoulders. Or better put—his daily fit. Because let's face it, Bruce Wayne was the alias. Batman was the true identity. Unlike most heroes who wore masks to become someone else, Bruce wore his to be himself.

The Batcave hummed quietly with the low buzz of the mainframe, the sound of soft typing echoing between distant stone walls. Fluorescent lighting glinted off the rows of preserved suits in their glass cases and the array of Batmobiles parked like sleeping beasts in the shadows.

"How was the Science Fair?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the surveillance feeds cycling across the monitors. He could feel Damian behind him, creeping silently, hoping to get the drop on him. Maybe it was to boost his pride, to prove he could sneak up on the man even his granfather acknowledged.

"Tch. Nothing special. I took first place—as expected." Damian dropped out of stealth mode like it was nothing, slipping back into his usual cool and collected demeanor, standing tall with arms crossed. "The other kids didn't stand a chance. Their morale nosedived after my presentation."

Bruce finally turned his head, just slightly. "It's good you're excelling in school," he said calmly. "But don't look down on the other kids. You can be better without stepping on people to do it."

Teaching Damian humility after a lifetime of being raised by the League of Assassins wasn't something he expected to achieve overnight, but still—there was no better time to start than now.

Batman's gaze shifted back to the monitors, eyes scanning camera angles of alleyways, rooftops, and industrial docks. The city never slept. Neither did he. After a moment, he asked without looking, "How about your friend? The one you mentioned the other day."

Damian's expression tightened a little. "His resilience at trying to befriend me really does get on my nerves," he muttered, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth—a hint of something that might've been fondness if he wasn't actively trying to suppress it.

Bruce gave a small grunt. "You need friends your age. At least one."

"I don't need friends. They can be liabilities." Damian's reply was sharp, automatic. But Bruce heard the hesitation beneath the surface.

Silence followed. Just the low whirring of Batcave tech and the distant, rhythmic drip of condensation echoing off cold stone walls.

"Dick made an annoying gesture last night," Damian spoke up again, eyes flicking across the cave until they landed on a specific glass display case. "And it's been bugging me ever since."

Bruce raised a brow, subtly. "What gesture?"

"He…drew my attention to something." Damian gestured toward the display containing Dick's old Robin suit, now pristine and preserved behind reinforced glass. "But then I noticed something."

He pointed from one display to the next. "That one's Dick's. That one's Barbara's. But this one—" He paused, pointing toward another suit. "This one isn't his. And I know it's not mine either. I was never allowed near it. So… whose is it?"

Bruce froze.

That case.

That suit.

He didn't want to lie. Couldn't bring himself to. And so, he turned to face his son fully for the first time since the conversation started. His voice came low, soft—weighted.

"That's Jason's," he said, and even though he kept his face stoic, Damian heard the unmistakable grief woven into the breath behind the name.

Damian caught it instantly. That undertone of loss. It settled into the silence like a fog.

He hesitated, unsure of how to follow up. He'd never seen his father falter like that, never heard his voice soften like a grieving man's.

"Is he…?" Damian couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. But Bruce already knew what he meant.

"Yes," Bruce said simply, eyes locked on the suit in the case.

A long pause stretched between them.

"I'm… sorry." Damian's voice came out quieter than he expected. He stood there, feeling something new crawl into his chest—empathy, maybe. "I know there are moments when we must be warriors… but there are also times we must allow ourselves to feel. Otherwise those buried emotions—they can break us from the inside."

Bruce didn't respond immediately, but he appreciated the words. In his own way, Damian was trying.

"What happened?" the boy asked, drawn in by the sadness painted across Bruce's face. He'd seen that look in strangers who'd lost loved ones… never in his father.

Bruce shifted his weight and leaned one hand against the console. The glow from the monitor flickered across his jaw, highlighting every weary line that age and regret had etched into it.

"After being too strict with Dick, I thought I'd give Jason more freedom," he said, voice calm but laced with years of guilt. "I should've been paying more attention. He wanted to prove himself. Went off alone. And then that monster killed him."

He turned his gaze toward the far corner of the cave where he kept his collection of some notable takeaways from his rogues' gallery. Among them—Joker's playing cards. That grotesque smile is forever frozen in ink.

With a heavy exhale, Bruce added, "He died because of me. I'd do anything to fix that."

Damian was silent. There were no rehearsed responses for something like this. No clever retort. No League of Assassins training that prepared him to comfort a grieving parent.

"It wasn't your fault," he finally said, heading toward the exit ramp of the Batcave. His voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "He died doing what he believed in—being a hero. There's no greater honor than dying for a cause."

He paused at the threshold, lingering with his hand on the stair rail. His cape swayed gently behind him as the air vents kicked on overhead.

"Whether it was your fault or not… that's not for me to say. I wasn't there. And I wouldn't pretend to understand your pain. But I get it now." With that, Damian left his father alone with the silence.

Bruce stood there. Still. Silent. Haunted.

And then the memories came rushing in—uninvited and overwhelming.

The explosion.

The sharp pain in his chest as he flew toward that burning warehouse, hoping, praying he wasn't too late. The sight of Jason's broken body—burned, lifeless. His cape scorched. The walls smeared with ash. He'd cradled his son's corpse in his arms, whispering useless apologies into the smoke as if they'd bring him back.

The funeral. The weight of that coffin. The moment Alfred had to steady him when his knees nearly gave out behind closed doors.

His breath hitched.

One hand moved instinctively to his chest as if trying to ease a phantom pain. Tears stung at his eyes, and for once, he didn't fight them. They carved silent trails down his cheeks, catching in the corners of his cowl. The reflection of Jason's costume glimmered in the glass, overlaid with the image of a man shattered inside.

This—this was why he became Batman. To stop this kind of pain. To protect the innocent. To ensure no child ever lost their parents the way he had. To deal justice so fierce that it makes criminals think twice before they begin their daily dose shenanigans.

Bruce Wayne was just a mask now. The real him—the one who barely slept, who threw himself into the night with bruises and broken bones—was here, in this cave, mourning a child he couldn't save.

And to make it worse, the man responsible still lived.

The Joker.

That sadistic clown who killed just to hear the punchline. Who would happily blow up a school bus full of kids and laugh as the world burned. Bruce had sent him away again and again—Arkham, Blackgate, back to Arkham—and every time, he got out. The system failed. Again and again.

And each time, more blood.

Jason's blood.

Unbeknownst to him, Jason was back-from the grave. Broken. Changed.

No longer the same boy. Hell, not even a boy anymore.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, he had to protect what was still his.

Damian.

He clenched his jaw.

He wouldn't lose another son.

His mind played some images—Red Hood with a crowbar, standing over someone. That same crowbar sticking out of someone else's chest.

What if the next time, it was Dick?

What if it was Damian?

"No," Bruce muttered under his breath, straightening, wiping the tear droplets away with the back of his gloved hand. The warmth had drained from his face, and the Batman returned.

"I won't let that happen. I can't let that happen. I must stop him."

And just like that, the man who had been grieving… disappeared into the cowl. The Bat was back.

And he had a mission.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Batman was back at the console, eyes locked on the screen, bathed in the cold blue light from the monitors. The Batcave around him was dead quiet, save for the low hum of servers and the occasional mechanical buzz from the Batcomputer cycling through data. Somewhere above, the manor slept.

But Bruce hadn't rested. Couldn't. Not with this nagging feeling gnawing at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn't reach.

He reloaded the footage from the other night—the rooftop chase. The one where he, Dick, and Damian had Red Hood cornered for a moment before he pulled that clean getaway.

It had been bothering Bruce since the second it happened. Something about the way he moved. The precision in his steps. The rhythm of his escape.

He leaned in as the footage played. Red Hood was fast, chaotic, but not careless. Everything was deliberate. He watched him sever the cable mid-swing, descend that building, and disappear right before the train thundered by and blocked the view.

Bruce usually stopped reviewing there. Same point every time. But tonight, something held him. He played that last second a few more times. Then he caught it.

Right before the train screeched past and swallowed the scene, Red Hood's head tilted slightly. He said something.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Pause."
He scrubbed back and watched it again. Slower.

Red Hood was saying something.
The words weren't clear through the train's rumble, but Bruce could hear something. Just barely.

"You're a bit rusty, but you haven't lost your touch, Bru—" The clip cut off right as the train screamed past.

Bruce sat back slowly, brows furrowed. That wasn't just some snide remark. That was personal. The way he said "Bru—"—not Batman, not Bats. It felt… familiar.

Too familiar.

With a grunt, he leaned forward again and began isolating the audio. He activated the Batcomputer's forensic software and separated the sound channels, filtering out the noise pollution from the train.

He enhanced Red Hood's vocal frequency, amped it up, cleared background distortion, and ran the sequence again.
"You're a bit rusty, but you haven't lost your touch, Bruce."

He froze.

The voice echoed through the speakers—clear, distinct, deliberate.

Since the incident with the factory, he came as no surprise that Red Hood knew his identity. But the question was, how?

Without wasting a second, he ran the voice through the Batcomputer's vocal recognition system. The program buzzed to life, comparing it against thousands of samples in the archives. He stood up now, his eyes locked on the screen, hands gripping the edge of the console.

The result popped up.

MATCH FOUND: JASON TODD.

A photo of Jason as a teenager, his file photo—flickered onto the screen. That cocky, mischievous smirk staring back at him like a ghost from another life. The name Jason Todd was stamped underneath in bold white letters.
Bruce's breath caught.

Bruce stared at the screen, stunned. His heart thudded once, hard, and then settled into a colder rhythm.

"No," he muttered.

There was no way.

And then—crash.

Behind him, the sharp clatter of broken ceramic rang out. He spun around to see Alfred standing at the bottom of the staircase, a shattered teacup at his feet. His face was pale, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

He'd seen the screen.

He'd heard the name.

"How… how is this possible?" Alfred asked, his voice soft and cracked in a way Bruce hadn't heard in years.

He didn't have to say much else. Jason wasn't just Bruce's loss—he was Alfred's too. The boy had lived under their roof. Eaten Alfred's meals, wore the suits he pressed, and learned lessons from him when Bruce couldn't. Alfred had helped raise him like one of his own.

Bruce looked at him, jaw tense. "Alfred…"

"Are you saying—Jason… he's alive?" The older man's voice was trembling. "Red Hood… that's him?"

Bruce didn't respond directly. He just turned back toward the locker where he kept emergency gear, tugging on a black jacket over his shoulders and grabbing a long, dirt-worn shovel from its rack. His face had changed.

The guilt was still there, but it had shifted. Now it was blended with something sharper. Focused. Determined.

"There's only one way to be sure," he said as he walked past Alfred, heading toward the exit that led outside.

The graveyard behind Wayne Manor was quiet and still. The air was cool, thick with moisture from an earlier drizzle, and the ground was soft beneath Bruce's boots.

Tall oaks lined the perimeter, casting long shadows under the dim moonlight barely breaking through the clouds.

He moved with purpose, not bothering with gloves or gadgets. Just him and a shovel.

And a name.

He walked past the graves of the Waynes—his parents, until he reached the smaller headstone a little farther down the hill. It was simple. Clean.

Jason Todd.

The date of birth. The date of death. Flowers long since dried lay at the base of the stone, their stems brittle from time.

Bruce shrugged off his jacket, folded it carefully, and laid it on top of the gravestone. Then he rolled up his sleeves and pressed the shovel into the dirt.
The first scoop hit with a heavy thud.
He worked quietly, slowly, methodically.

His breath was calm, focused, but beneath the surface, thoughts raced. Every memory. Every moment he'd failed Jason—all of it bubbled to the surface with every shove of the blade.
He had to know.

He needed to know.

Inside the manor, Damian stirred.

He had gone to bed early after the conversation with his father. No patrol tonight. But somewhere around 2 a.m., he woke with a dry throat and an itch in his gut that something was off.

He threw on his robe and padded down the dark hallway barefoot, heading to the kitchen. As he poured himself a glass of water, his eyes drifted to the window.

He stopped mid-sip.

There, in the distance, he saw the beam of a flashlight cutting through the mist over the graveyard. And beneath it—his father.

Digging.

"What the—" he muttered, setting the glass down.

By the time Damian reached the yard, Bruce had already uncovered the coffin.
Alfred stood a few feet away, flashlight in his hand, his expression pale and worried.

"Master Bruce," he said quietly, "Are you absolutely sure about this? What if you… what if you see something you're not ready for?"

Bruce didn't hesitate. "I have to be sure. This is the only way."

He crouched down, brushed dirt from the edge of the coffin lid, and unlatched it.
A sudden voice cut through the still night.

"I didn't take you for a grave robber," Damian said, standing just behind Alfred with his arms folded, clearly unimpressed but deeply confused.

Bruce didn't answer him. He took a deep breath and opened the lid.

All three of them leaned over.
And froze.

Jason lay there—untouched. His body hadn't decomposed. He hadn't aged. He looked exactly the same as the day they buried him. Peaceful. Still. Like he was just… sleeping.

Damian's brow furrowed. "Okay… that's creepy." It looked just like the Jason he knew from the League. It looked exactly the same as the time he first met him. But he held on to this realization, not wanting to draw conclusions until he got an explanation.

Alfred's lips parted in disbelief. "He hasn't changed," he whispered. "Not even a day."
Damian stepped forward and read the date on the gravestone again. "This was years ago… How is this possible?" The same year Jason came into their lives in the mountains.

Bruce stared down at Jason's body, fists clenched at his sides. "I should've known."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "You mind explaining what that means, or should I start guessing?"

Bruce didn't answer. He just reached up and grabbed Alfred's hand, letting the older man help him climb out of the grave.
"I'll explain when I get back," Bruce said, brushing dirt from his shirt and grabbing his jacket from the headstone.

Damian rolled his eyes. "That's not an answer, that's a plot dodge. Where are you going?"

Bruce pulled on the jacket and turned back toward the manor, his tone dead serious.
"To get answers."

There was no hesitation. No doubt. Just a cold, focused certainty in his voice.
He didn't say it out loud, but he knew who could've pulled this off.

Who had the knowledge. The resources. The means to bring back the dead.

Jason hadn't just come back on his own.
Someone brought him back.

He was going to find out exactly how it happened, even if he had to dig deeper than any grave to do it.

- - -

Bruce, now fully suited in the Bat costume, piloted the Batwing high above the clouds, slicing through the cold air of the mountain range like a predator in the dark. Below him, nestled into the jagged cliffs like a fortress built into the bones of the Earth, was the new home base of the League of Assassins.

With a few taps on the console, the Batwing engaged its cloaking tech—light-bending camouflage that rendered it invisible even to infrared scans. It shimmered once, then vanished completely from sight. Batman guided the craft into a hidden ridge just outside the compound, setting it down without a whisper.

Once on foot, he moved like smoke—silent, shapeless, invisible. The cold mountain wind bit through the narrow paths, howling between ancient stone walls and sleek, modern architecture reinforced with brutal precision. League guards patrolled the outer grounds in pairs, but none noticed the shadow weaving between them.

He slipped past infrared beams, ducked under security cams, and ghosted through pressure-triggered corridors. Not a single step echoed. Not a breath gave him away.
Like a phantom, he glided through the dark belly of the base, deeper and deeper toward the main building—toward her. The woman who complicated his life more than any villain he'd ever faced. The mother of his son.

The woman who raised more questions than she ever answered.

Talia al Ghul.

The mother of his arrogant, infuriating, brilliant, prideful little menace who gave him more headaches than Gotham's entire rogues' gallery.

Honestly, Bruce had started using the city's criminals as punching bags just to blow off the stress Damian caused on a weekly basis.

He came to a pair of tall, ancient doors, ornate, carved with symbols older than any modern tongue. Silent as death, he cracked one open just enough to peer through.

There she was.

Talia sat behind a desk of polished obsidian, legs crossed, reading a leather-bound book with that same calm, unreadable expression she always wore—like she was trying to channel the wisdom of her father through posture alone. Now that she'd inherited his title, she dressed the part. Regal. Cold. Timeless.

The room was dim, illuminated only by a few candles and the pale light of the moon pouring through the high arched windows. Shadows painted the walls like old ghosts. He slipped inside, melting into those shadows, moving without a sound.

He didn't come here for closure or pleasantries. He was here for answers. The kind you don't ask nicely for.

He crept behind her, careful and precise. This was her domain, and the element of surprise was his only advantage.

But Talia wasn't just anyone. In one swift motion, she sensed the shift in air behind her, reached for her desk, and spun around.

Their weapons met at each other's throats. His Batarang pressed tight against her skin, while her hidden pen-knife gleamed inches from his own.

She smirked.

"You know," she said in that familiar and soul soothing voice, calm and sharp like a dagger in silk, "a romantic lover might present a flower. Not a murdering tool." Bruce didn't even blink.

He ignored the bait, eyes hard beneath the cowl. "Tell me what you and that sociopathic father of yours did to my son."
Talia tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Your son?" She played dumb, but there was a flicker—an ever-so-slight falter.

"Did something happen to Damian?"

"Not Damian." Batman's voice was low, heavy. "His predecessor. Robin. The one who died."

Her gaze shifted. The lie lingered on her tongue, but she didn't speak it.
"I don't know what you mean, Bruce. I have no ide—"

"Cut the crap and give me answers." He leaned in, the Batarang pressing into her neck. His jaw was tight, fury simmering behind those sharp, cold eyes. It wasn't rage. It was pain. Raw and volcanic.

Talia held his gaze, unblinking, and slowly eased her arm down. The pen clattered softly on the desk. "Fine," she said, voice quiet but steady. "But if I talk, you'll listen."
He stepped back and lowered his weapon—but not his guard. "Start at the beginning."

She took her time, walking to a nearby counter where a crystal decanter of wine sat with two glasses. The movement was deliberate, graceful, all part of her control.
"Care for one as well?" she asked, holding up a glass.

His silence was answer enough.
She poured herself a drink anyway. "Suit yourself."

Talia swirled the wine, took a sip, then began.

"Five years ago, you were closing in on my father. You were a thorn in his side. Getting too close to things you shouldn't. So he made what I would call a rare mistake, he tried outsourcing the distraction." Batman didn't flinch.

"He hired the Joker."

Her voice thinned. "Of course, that clown went rogue. Took it too far. And Robin—Jason—paid the price for it."
She said it plainly, without drama. But she wasn't unaffected. Not completely.
"My father tried to make amends in the only way he knew how.

We swapped the real body with a replica and buried the double. You were grieving too hard to notice. We flew the real one out of Bosnia."

Bruce stared at her, every word like a gut punch. He hadn't noticed. Not the switch, not the weight difference. Nothing. He'd been too broken.

"You used the pit," he said, eyes locking onto hers.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "But what came out wasn't Jason. It was… something else. An empty shell. Wild. Feral. He came out screaming and ran straight off a cliff before we could catch him. Not before killing a few of our men."

She paced now, glass in hand. "We thought he died again. My father chose not to tell you. He said reopening that wound would be cruel."

Bruce's expression was unreadable beneath the mask, but his silence spoke volumes. Doubt. Shame. Anger. All swirling behind those eyes.

"We searched for days," she continued.
"Eventually, we found him. He killed and injured few of my men before we could subdue him. But when he woke up… something had changed. He remembered nothing. Not his name. Not you. Nothing from his life before."

There it was. The confirmation. Jason had survived. And Red Hood was not a delusion.

"Why hide it?" Batman asked, voice low and rough.

"Because it wasn't my secret to tell." She turned to face him fully now, glass cradled in her palm. "Jason became Ra's' personal apprentice. My father saw something in him. A successor, maybe."

She looked down at her wine. "I wanted to tell you. I thought… maybe it would help ease your pain. But betraying my father wasn't something I could bring myself to do."

Bruce didn't snap. Didn't yell. He just waited. Watching. Processing.
Talia's lips pressed together, but she went on.

"After Ra's died, the League went to war with Deathstroke's mercenaries. Jason fought in that war. He wanted revenge."
That surprised him.

Now there were two sons loyal to Ra's al Ghul.

"Three years ago, on the island of Lian Yu, Jason and Slade fought. The others found only blood. Jason and Deathstroke vanished. No bodies. Just a trail. A lot of blood at the cliff's edge. One spot looked like the victim almost bled out before dropping to the sea. The other? Drag marks. Someone moved the body."
Batman's jaw clenched under the cowl. Talia wasn't lying. Or if she was, she was too good to catch.

"You haven't seen him since?" he asked.
"Not a word. Nothing. He's presumed dead. Again."

She walked to the window, letting the moonlight bathe her face. She looked different now. Tired. Maybe even remorseful.

"You could've told me when your father died," he said quietly. "Or when you brought Damian to me. You had plenty of chances."

"I—" She turned back.

But he was already gone. No cape. No shadow. No whisper of movement.

Talia stood in the moonlit silence, alone with her wine and the truth she'd finally spoken. She opened her mouth, maybe to defend herself. Maybe to ask for understanding.

But Batman had vanished, just like the ghost he'd arrived as. And he left behind only questions.


- - -

A/N:—

While working on this latest chapter—where I really leaned into the emotional weight between Bruce and Jason, and peeled back some of the layers of DC's most emotionally repressed family of heroes—I had a random thought that completely derailed me.

Imagine this:

You're just some low-level grave thief or wannabe tomb raider. Middle of the night. Graveyard's quiet. You're doing your shady little thing, maybe looking for jewelry or whatever your creepy hustle is.

Then you see him. Batman. Full gear. Cape. Cowl. No Batmobile. Just a shovel, digging up a grave like it's his side hustle.

And before you can nope your way out of there, he turns—slowly—makes full eye contact with you from the shadows.

No words. No context. Just that soul-punching Batman glare while holding a shovel like he's about to bury your entire existence.

I had to stop writing for a full minute because the image had me laughing like I had briefly gone insane.

Like, the emotional intensity in this chapter was so high… and then my brain was like: "But what if 'Batman Grave Digger Mode'?"

Anyway—hope y'all enjoy the chapter. Let me know what cursed Batman image your brain cooks up after reading it.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Now back in the Batcave during the early hours of the morning—while the world above still slept beneath the pale hush of pre-dawn—Batman had shed his cowl and cape, the armor sitting heavy across the chair beside him.

He sat alone at the console, hunched forward with tired eyes locked onto the screen, which displayed a younger version of Jason Todd, captured in a photo from brighter days. The glow from the monitor softly lit his face, highlighting the wear in his features—the lines drawn deep from grief, regret, and long-unspoken guilt.

Behind him, the sound of soft footsteps broke the silence.

"Master Bruce… is it true?" Alfred asked, his voice low but strained. He didn't need to clarify what he meant—Bruce had promised an explanation when he returned, and now he owed them one.

"Yes, Alfred," Bruce replied quietly, never taking his eyes off the screen. He sounded worn out. Not physically, but from something far worse—something that weighed on the soul.

Alfred stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, and let out a quiet breath. He looked down at the stone floor beneath his polished shoes, as if searching for the right words—or maybe trying to keep his emotions from spilling.

He had prepared himself for the possibility, had entertained the theory with Bruce when it first came up… but hearing it confirmed still knocked the wind out of him.

The boy they had once taken in. The bright, brash, angry kid who had found a place among them. Alive. But not whole.
"I saw so much potential in Jason when I first met him," Bruce began, finally leaning back, his voice low but steady.

"He had that fire in him. The kind that could burn him out—or light the way for others. If someone didn't guide that energy, if no one helped him find a path, he was destined for trouble. Jail. Or worse."

He glanced down, running a hand across his face. "So I tried. I gave him something to fight for. I thought I could teach him discipline, purpose. I really believed he'd walk that line, even if it was difficult." A heavy pause hung between them.

"But now…" Bruce exhaled, rubbing his temples with both hands as the weight of it all settled on his shoulders. "It's way too late for that now. Everything's gone sideways. He's not the same boy we buried."

"You did what you could, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly, stepping closer. He rested a hand on Bruce's shoulder, offering what little comfort he could.

For a moment, Bruce didn't speak.
Then, from the shadows near the cave entrance, Damian finally stepped forward, revealing he'd been there the whole time. Listening. Watching. His arms were folded over his chest, expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his curiosity and suspicion.

"I should have known right from the start," Bruce said, sitting upright now, his tone tinged with self-reproach and frustration.

"The bat symbol on his chest… the trap at the factory... the way he fought—my tactics, my playbook. He's elusive, fast, unpredictable… and he knows me. Knows how I move."

His voice cracked just slightly at the edge, and it was obvious—this wasn't just about being outmaneuvered. This was grief, twisted with guilt, turning into something else entirely.

Damian tilted his head, his voice cutting through the air. "That punk Jason was really Robin? One of your adopted sons?"
Bruce turned his gaze toward him, blinking once.

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes drifted back to the photo of Jason on the screen, the younger version—the boy with unruly hair and fire in his eyes.

"You know him from the League?" Bruce finally asked.

"Of course I do," Damian muttered. "He always knew how to piss me off. Grandfather's favorite student." Bruce flinched—just slightly—at those words.Talia's bruefing hadn't giving him precise depth as to just how close Jason had become to Ra's.

"That explains his movements," Bruce said to inform the rest, already processing the implications. "No wonder he's this good, but that doesn't explain his speed."

"Tell us what you remember about him, Master Damian," Alfred cut in, ever the one to move things forward.

Damian shrugged and leaned casually against one of the metal support rails that curved around the Batcomputer's platform. "He was a pain in the ass. But... I'll admit this much; he was good. Scary good.

Adapted fast, fought harder than most. Even when things got messy, he always knew how to get the upper hand."
Bruce glanced at him from the corner of his eye, listening carefully now.

"But he was unstable," Damian continued. "Sometimes after winning a fight, even when his opponent was already down—he wouldn't stop. He'd just keep going. Rage would take over. They ended up bloody. Broken. One guy didn't walk again."

Alfred stiffened slightly, his hand slowly falling from Bruce's shoulder. Bruce's expression turned cold and thoughtful, brows drawing together.

"No one—except instructors—wanted to spar with him after that," Damian added. "Especially when weapons were involved. At times he seemed like he had more than one personality or so." Bruce folded his arms. "And what did Ra's do about it?"

Damian shrugged. "He made Jason his personal project. One-on-one training. Jason learned how to keep his temper in check… for the most part. Eventually, the others started respecting him. Even feared him. He became one of the most dangerous fighters in the League. Even Lady Shiva dropped by and gave him a couple lessons."

Batman paused upon hearing that, pondering on just how good has Jason's combat skills become. And if himself could engage Red Hood in a 1v1 battle and actually come out on top without putting his own life on the line.

Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly. "So Ra's didn't tame him. He refined him."
Bruce stayed silent for a beat, jaw tightening. "He must've trained Jason at a different level than the rest. But for what purpose?"

The cave fell into a thoughtful quiet again. The soft trickle of water in the background and the distant flutter of bats overhead echoed faintly through the dark chamber, underscoring Bruce's deepening suspicion.

The glow from the computer monitors illuminated all three of them in pale blue light, painting their faces in tired shadows.
"How skilled did he become?" Alfred asked, voice gentle but firm.

Damian took a breath and let his pride drop for just a second. "I don't know the full extent. But as much as it sucks to say this—I never stood a chance. Not in his current state. Not in a real fight. And definitely not in a fight to the death."
Neither Bruce nor Alfred spoke.

"He's that far ahead," Damian added with a scowl, like it personally offended him to admit it.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose. "Talia told me he fought Deathstroke. Word was... it ended in a draw. Both bodies disappeared after the fight."

Alfred blinked, stunned. "Against Deathstroke?" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "Good heavens…" He looked to Bruce, tone grave. "You need to be careful, sir. Jason may have once been your son… but now, he might just be your most dangerous adversary."

The Batcomputer screen shifted, flickering slightly before landing on a split image—on one side, the younger Jason Todd, cocky smile and defiance in his eyes. On the other, Red Hood—fully armored, masked, silent, unreadable.

The three of them stood there, facing that screen in silence. And though no one said it out loud, the feeling settled heavily between them;

Jason hadn't just returned from the grave.
He'd come back as something else entirely.

The silence which followed was thick—almost sacred—as the screen flickered between images of Jason Todd then and now. Red Hood's mask stared back like a mirror that Bruce had long avoided.

But not anymore.

Bruce stepped away from the chair, his cape trailing slightly behind him as he walked over to the central platform. His hands were already moving—pulling up surveillance footage, recent crime scene data, known weapons caches in Gotham, old safe houses, League intel files. The Batcomputer whirred to life, processing as fast as he was thinking.

He needed a plan.

A pattern.

Something to anticipate Jason's next move before he pushed things past the point of no return.

"Jason's not just attacking criminals," Bruce muttered as if thinking aloud. "He's making statements. Leaving symbols. The crowbar on the docks, the coordinated hit on Sionis' men... He's targeting our enemies—but not like we would. He wants fear. Shock."

"He wants you to notice," Alfred added pointedly. "Every act so far has been tailor-made to send a message. Not to the city. To you, Master Bruce."

Bruce's jaw tightened.

"That's why we have to stay ahead of him," he replied, voice cool, almost methodical now. "If he's using League tactics, he'll have fallback routes. Habits. I need to revisit his old Robin patrol maps and cross-reference them with our current threat activity. He's likely operating from somewhere familiar—somewhere personal."

Damian stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice cutting in sharp. "Then I want in."

Bruce turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. "No."

Damian frowned. "You just said it yourself—he's one of the most dangerous threats Gotham's faced. You'll need backup."

"I said no," Bruce repeated. "This isn't a game. Red Hood doesn't hold back. You heard what you just said about him, Damian. You wouldn't survive that fight."

Damian's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So what? I'm just supposed to sit this out while he parades around with your symbol, twisting it into some weapon for his crusade?"

Bruce didn't answer.

"Don't forget," Damian added bitterly, "he's not the only one trained by the League. I know how he thinks too."

Bruce stepped forward, tone cold. "He was trained by Ra's personally. Fought Deathstroke. He's lived through death. You haven't. That makes all the difference."

The tension hung thick in the air.

But then, Alfred stepped forward—his voice gentler but more cutting than either of theirs.

"Forgive me, sirs. But this has gone far enough."

Both Wayne men paused.

Alfred walked to Bruce's side, not with judgment—but a heaviness in his posture that silenced them both. His gaze was on Bruce, steady and filled with something deeper than frustration. It was weariness… and heartbreak.

"You're treating this like a mission. Another file. Another criminal to map out, corner, and clean up. But Jason isn't Clayface. He isn't Riddler. He's not even Slade. He's your son."

Bruce didn't flinch—but he also didn't argue.

"You're walking headlong into a fight," Alfred continued, "but you haven't taken a moment to acknowledge what's really happening. That boy you took in—the one who used to sneak cookies from the pantry when he thought I wasn't looking—he's not just Red Hood. He's Jason."

Bruce's expression was unreadable, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with each breath.

"I know who he is," he said at last, voice low. "And that's the problem."

"No, sir," Alfred replied. "The problem is that you've already started mourning him again—only this time, while he's still alive."

That struck something deep.

Damian, now quiet, looked between the two of them, his earlier anger starting to fade beneath a more complicated emotion—confusion. Maybe even guilt.

Alfred stepped away, moving to the console and slowly sitting in the chair Bruce had just left.

"You built this place to fight crime," he said softly, gesturing around them, "but sometimes… sometimes what we're up against isn't a villain. Sometimes, it's family. And I fear this is the kind of battle that can't be won with strategy and brute force."

Bruce looked up at the screen again.

On the left, Jason's eyes—young, defiant, alive.

On the right, the blank mask of Red Hood—silent, armored, hiding everything.

He exhaled through his nose and whispered, almost to himself, "Then I'll have to find another way."

Alfred rose again. "Find a way that doesn't break him further—or destroy what's left of you in the process."

No one said anything after that.

Damian stepped back into the shadows, his mind already racing with thoughts he couldn't fully voice. Alfred turned away, heading toward the elevator in silence, hands once again clasped behind his back.

And Bruce stood still, beneath the pale glow of the monitors—haunted, calculating, grieving—and finally, beginning to accept:

The mission had changed.

It was no longer about stopping Red Hood.
It was about saving Jason Todd. His son.

Before Gotham lost him for good.

Before he, lost him for good.