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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