The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason didn't react with surprise. He'd expected the answer—even if he didn't like it. Still, he knew there had to be more to it than that.

His reflection paused, as if deliberately giving him time to sit with the revelation. Then it spoke again.

"I am more like your shadow-self. You could say I'm the part of your soul that was pushed down," it said calmly, "so the personality you woke up as could exist after the Lazarus Pit brought you back."

It tilted its head slightly.

"You were resurrected as a hollow body, with no memories, no sense of self—driven by a raw, instinctive need to fill the void the Pit left behind."

Jason stayed silent with his jaw clenched tight.

Taking that as permission to continue, the reflection pressed on.

"Your mind, wiped clean, was caught in a tug-of-war. On one side, the overwhelming hunger left by the Lazarus Pit. On the other, the moral framework Bruce drilled into us—Bruce, the only person we'd truly opened our heart to since our mother died."

Jason narrowed his eyes, turning the words over in his head.

It sounded insane. Absurd. And yet… it fit too cleanly to dismiss outright. He didn't fully believe it—but for the first time, he felt like he was being handed an explanation that wanted to make sense.

'Well. Everything about my life has been absurd.' Jason thought dryly as the man in the mirror went on.

"As a result of that internal conflict," the reflection said, "I was bound deep within your subconscious—chained there, waiting for the moment I could break free and surface again."

The words stirred memories Jason hadn't consciously reached for.

The League's first mission. The secluded island. The crime lord's compound. The metahuman guard who should have killed him outright. Jason remembered his vision blurring, blood spilling down his face, the world turning red as consciousness slipped—

—and the sound of chains.

He'd seen his shadow-self then. Had felt it.

Another memory followed. The bear attack. The gash across his mid torso. Darkness closing in, until he'd opened his eyes in the depths of the Lazarus Pit, the last thing he'd seen before blacking out being that same shadow-self watching him fade.

Both times, he'd been standing on the threshold of death. Either heading to, or right at the door.

'Damn,' he thought, a humorless edge creeping in as he realized how toobmany times he has almost lost his life. 'I really do have a habit of courting death.'

Even so, he could tell the reflection was holding something back. Not with malice, not like the bandaged figure, but with intent.

"So," Jason said at last, eyebrow arching, his tone edged with disbelief, "you're saying you're the real me?"

"Not exactly," the reflection replied.

Its expression twisted—subtly at first, then unmistakably.

"Let's just say…"

The grin that followed was sharp, malevolent.

The air thickened around Jason, pressing against his chest, and for the first time since waking, he found himself struggling to draw a full breath as he found himself at the receiving side of his bloodlusful aura.

"I am the man you become when you put on the hood."

Jason's eyes widened.

He'd suspected the figure in the mirror was the one taking control whenever he blacked out, but this was something else entirely. If that was true, then maybe the decisions he made, the emotions he felt, even the way his thoughts aligned whenever he wore the hood… all of it flowed from this version of himself.

Which raised a far more unsettling question.

'Then who am I?'

Who was Jason Todd?

And who, exactly, was the Red Hood?

He forced himself to steady his breathing, reining in the spiral of thoughts. The reflection felt fleeting—like it could vanish at any moment—and Jason still had too many unanswered questions.

One in particular clawed its way back to the surface. The words spoken by the bandage-wrapped demon.

"Why do I have a white streak in my hair," Jason asked, "but you don't?"

The reflection folded its arms, chin lifting as though looking down at him. Its expression settled into something neutral as it raised a hand to stroke its chin, considering.

"You already understand the basics," it said at last. "But I'll give you my interpretation."

It paused.

"It could be the result of extreme psychological trauma—what your mind and soul endured in purgatory, compounded by the strain of resurrection."

Then, more quietly, it added, "Or it could be because your soul was touched by Lady Death herself… after you won the fight for it."

Jason's expression tightened.

"It might be one," the reflection concluded. "Or the other. Or both."

Jason sank into thought, memories rising unbidden.

The abyssal void. Purgatory. The version of himself he'd met there—the one who claimed to be his conscience. The part of him that had kept him alive, that 'would' have kept him alive even longer if Jason hadn't rushed headlong toward Joker that night.

That version had mocked him. Dragged him through his own memories while dealing a series of blows of brutal honesty. Then they'd fought—not with fists alone, but with will—for the right to exist as Jason Todd.

The son of Batman, beaten to death by the Joker…

Or the part of him that had been buried beneath Bruce's teachings—rules about lines that should never be crossed, restraint demanded even when criminals gave him every reason to abandon it.

Two selves.

One name.

One body, and an internal war that never truly ended.

He had wanted—so badly—to tread that line, to flirt with it just a little. That part of him, the side twisted by wrath and vengeance, could have won the fight. If it had, there was no telling what he might have become—back at the League, or worse… as the Red Hood.

"That should be enough for now. Until next ti—"

"One more question."

Jason cut him off before the reflection could vanish, earning an exasperated sigh in return.

"What is it?"

"Who… is the demon wrapped in bandages?"

The mirror's expression shifted instantly, darkening in a way Jason had never seen before. The casual, mocking demeanor vanished, replaced by something cold, serious.

"Do not… ever ask me about him," it replied.

Jason swallowed hard. Everything he'd learned so far had hinted at the creature being an unknown—but instinct told him it was something darker. Something that wanted his soul.

He theorized: perhaps the demon had been drawn to his soul by the Lazarus Pit, clinging to his essence during resurrection. Or maybe it was the physical manifestation of the bloodlust left within him by the Pit.

"You already know who—or rather, what—he is," the reflection added.

Jason's jaw tightened in frustration, but he stayed silent, letting it continue.

"What happened to your mind and soul is far more complicated than I've explained. Only he can give you the clues you need. Only he can reveal his true identity—and perhaps help fill in the three-year gap in your memories… and show you who the real enemy is."

Jason blinked, drowning in confusion. Just as he had begun to grasp even a fragment of understanding, the reflection suggested something that terrified him: he would have to confront his inner demon, literally, if he hoped to uncover the full truth.

"Wait… the true enemy?" The words stumbled out, weighed heavy with disbelief and curiousity.

With a sarcastic wave, the reflection dismissed him. "Let it go. Don't dwell on it. Remember… Joker wasn't the only hunt."

Jason straightened, shaking off the swirl of wandering thoughts. He forced himself to refocus, letting the reflection's words settle into the corner of his mind as he focused his attention.

"Don't you think the Red Hood has teased his little prey enough?" Mirror Jason said, smirking, the hint in his tone barely hidden.

"Roman," Jason muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as thoughts of Black Mask surfaced. He had provoked, manipulated, and pushed the crime lord until Joker had been delivered on a silver platter.

Now it was time to dismantle the rest of him, another piece of Gotham's filth to be scrapped off the streets.

"Good to know Joker's death hasn't made you complacent," Mirror Jason said, voice smooth and honeyed, hypnotic almost, landing exactly where Jason's desires, and his ambitions were. "It isn't over yet."

He gestured vaguely, halfway raising his arms. "A revamp of Black Mask's empire under your sovereignty… would cement your influence over more of Gotham's streets. Just saying." And then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the seed he knew Jason would nurture.

Jason lingered in front of the mirror, his eyes fixed on his reflection, the white streak cutting through his hair like a mark of everything he had endured.

"Sh*t," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Forgot to ask how I even got this boost in… everything." His mind buzzed with unanswered questions.

Not just about himself, or the mysterious "true enemy," but about what came next—how things would unfold with Batman, with the others, now that Joker was finally gone.

He left the bathroom and slipped into bed wearing nothing but his underwear.

Hours passed, and sleep refused him. He twisted, turned, rolled—changing position endlessly as his thoughts chased themselves in circles.

The encounter in the tub lingered in his mind, gnawing at him. He couldn't shake the fear that something similar might happen once he finally drifted off.

Eventually, he returned to the night's work: replaying what he had done to Joker, the finality of the clown's madness, and his long awaited revenge.

Less than half an hour later, exhaustion finally claimed him. His body relaxed, a faint, almost serene expression settling across his face as he drifted into sleep.

- - -

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, washing his room in a golden glow. Jason stirred, stretching as if he had slept a full night without a single worry. For once, it felt like the weight of the city had lifted, even if just for a moment.

Even after everything his shadow self had told him the night before—the truths about who he was, the demons he carried—he felt lighter. There was a spring in his step, a sense of accomplishment that only came from finally waking up to a Joker-free world. Breakfast somehow tasted better, sweeter, more flavourful, more alive.

He wasn't planning to spend the day hunting Black Mask, not today. And sitting at home wasn't appealing either. Grabbing the remote, he lazily flipped through channels, half-looking, half-thinking about how best to spend his time.

"Li should be out of custody by now," he muttered, reaching for his phone. A few taps later, he dialed Mayor Stuart.

The call wasn't about pleasantries, or to thank him for his ignorant and unwilling contribution to the death of Joker. Jason's instructions was clear: make sure Li wasn't being dragged into Black Mask's web. On paper, she was just a secretary at his cosmetic company—a legal business, a legitimate front for his illegal activities.

A few pointed reminders, a subtle hint of what could happen if the Mayor failed to pull the right strings… and Li's protection was secured. She had her own network, sure, but Jason didn't want her tied to any illegal activity—at least, not on record.

He had plans for her to take over the empire upon the death of Black Mask, so he played that move to ensure the law wouldn't have anything on her.

Satisfied, he tossed the phone onto the couch and wandered to the window. Taking a deep breath as the city sprawled beneath him, with Gotham's skyline ever so jagged against the morning sky.

Streets teemed with life, cars crawling along avenues, people getting on with their daily lives. He might as well get on with he's.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The morning news blared from every screen in Gotham, the headline dominating every channel: 'Joker Dead at the Hands of Red Hood.' For decades, no one had managed such a feat. The Clown Prince of Crime, the city's most notorious nightmare, had finally been silenced—permanently.

For Gotham's citizens, it felt like a new era had begun. The streets would no longer echo with that maniacal laughter. Families could walk freely without the constant fear that Joker might escape from Arkham only to target them—or someone they loved.

The city's collective nightmare had ended, and for a fleeting moment, they all rejoiced within their hearts.

The media speculated, as they always did, that Black Mask had played a role in Joker's recent escape from Arkham. But there was no hard evidence, no concrete proof to validate the rumors. Just the kind of conjecture that thrived in Gotham's rumor mills.

Behind the scenes, Roman Sionis's legal troubles were quietly resolved. His team of lawyers worked methodically, flipping the narrative so that Black Mask appeared not as a co-conspirator but as a victim of Joker's chaos. A few well-placed pressures and discreetly greased palms later, Roman walked free.

Even Commissioner Gordon, as determined as he was, had little recourse. The city's legal system could only do so much when wealth and influence had already tilted the scales. One of the perks of being wealthy and well-connected in Gotham's upper echelons.

Of course, Roman's release came with consequences. The stock of his cosmetic company, the legitimate front for his far darker dealings, had taken a small hit during the controversy. But it was a minor setback, a blip on the radar compared to how much cash he would be railing in once he finally got rid of the Red Hood.

To the public eye, the Red Hood was no longer viewed as just the violent but contained threat he had once been portrayed as by earlier news coverage.

Joker's death had altered that perception irrevocably. What had once been speculation and rumor was now fact: the Red Hood was capable of ending even Gotham's most infamous monsters, and he would not hesitate to do so.

That realization fractured the city's opinion of him.

Across Gotham, perspectives diverged om different sense. Many saw the Red Hood as a dangerous vigilante walking a razor's edge, one step away from being branded a full-fledged criminal himself. His methods were brutal, and unchecked by law.

Yet for others—citizens worn down by years of recycled violence, his extremity represented the change Gotham had long been denied. To them, he wasn't the problem; he was the answer.

The broadcast cut to footage from the bridge that night. A reporter stood amid flashing lights and police tape, microphone extended toward a civilian who had witnessed the chaos firsthand. When asked what he thought of the wave the Red Hood had unleashed upon Gotham, the man spoke with blunt conviction.

He talked about Batman—about how the Dark Knight had fought criminals relentlessly for years, breaking bones and dragging them off the streets, only for the same names to resurface time and time again. He added the statement that Batman had gone soft compared to his earlier days as a vigilante.

According to him, the Red Hood was exactly what Gotham needed now: someone willing to end the cycle rather than preserve it.

Several voices around him murmured in agreement. Others shouted over the crowd, condemning the Red Hood as too dangerous, too unstable to be allowed free rein over the city, saying the police should lock up his ass.

While Gotham debated, the underworld listened—and took note of the change that has been on the rise for the past couple of months.

Within the criminal networks that thrived beneath the city, the Red Hood's name carried new weight. His reputation spread quickly, earning him an unprecedented level of prestige, recognition, and fear among Gotham's underbelly.

Some, particularly those who had never encountered him firsthand, dismissed the stories. They believed he relied on fear as a tool, cultivating a legend to keep others in line. To them, he was all bark and no bite, another masked figure exaggerating his cruelty to intimidate rivals.

That belief died the moment Joker's death became undeniable.

If the Red Hood was unhinged enough to kill the Clown Prince of Crime, something no one had managed to accomplish for decades—then he was no bluff. Fear took root in their minds despite their resistance, as a grim truth which the others have tried to tell them— settled in: this was not just another vigilante.

This was Batman without restraint.

For years, criminals had continued operating despite Batman's presence because they understood the limits. He would break them, cripple them, leave them hospitalized for months—but he would never cross the line of taking a life. As long as they could still breathe, there was always another chance to return to the streets. Crime was not just a profession to them; it was a way of life.

The Red Hood erased that certainty.

If he put a bullet in someone's head, there was no recovery or even a prison sentence, just the end of their life.

Now, Gotham's criminals were forced to live with a new reality. They no longer feared only the Bat or the law. They feared the Red Hood, a presence lurking somewhere in the city, one none of them ever hoped to encounter because he was basically Batman with lethal wespons he wouldn't hesitate to use.

- - -

[The Batcave]

Dick's fingers clicked continuously on the mouse, switching from one news channel to another. Every monitor displayed the same story: Red Hood. Headlines flashed across the screens, all echoing the same message.

"Great," Dick muttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Looks like your son is officially on Gotham's list of big bads." He extended an arm, pressing a button to mute the monitors, the reports no longer needing to compete for his attention.

"Gone soft?" Damian interjected, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he considered the words of a civilian who clearly had no understanding of what it meant to bear the mantle of Batman.

Dick shrugged, leaning back. "The mayor even refuses to make a statement directly addressing Red Hood." He turned to Bruce, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Remember the way the press slandered you for years when Batman wasn't acknowledged as a hero?" He paused, hoping to get a reaction—but Bruce remained silent. Dick let the comment drop, conceding the point.

"So he finally got his revenge and killed Joker… now what?" Dick asked rhetorically, shifting his attention back to the largest monitor, where footage of Batman's recent fight with Red Hood replayed endlessly.

Bruce's eyes stayed fixed on the screen. He had kept the recording on loop ever since briefing them on his encounter with Jason, analyzing how Jason fights.

"There's no telling what's going on in his head," Bruce said, his eyes still the footage of Jason. "Crime can't be stopped completely—but it can be controlled." He rested a hand on his chin, deep in thought, and Damian raised a brow at the unusual tone in his father's words.

"Something Jason said… that must be his goal," Bruce clarified, as if reading his own thoughts aloud.

"Great," Dick muttered with a dry smirk. "We've got one of our own setting up shop in Gotham's underworld."

"That could take months," Bruce replied, eyes narrowing at the screens. "What we need to know now is his next move." He reviewed Red Hood's pattern of actions, but it was messy—chaotic even. Jason never took a direct route; every move was meant to serve for a didferent purpose that demonstrated.

"How about Black Mask?" Damian asked, pointing to a potential thread that could reveal Jason's next target.

"Jason only began his feud with Black Mask to manipulate him into helping free Joker from Arkham," Dick explained. "He's already accomplished that goal. By now, he might be done with Roman."

"Not entirely," Bruce interjected, his voice firm and precise.

"What do you mean?" Dick asked, both sons turning their attention to their father.

"Jason is unpredictable," Bruce said. "We need to account for every piece on the board, even the ones we think are inconsequential. Any of them could draw Red Hood back into our path."

Damian's eyes darkened with curiosity. "Father… when we finally reach him, what's the plan? Do you intend to send him to Arkham?" His question had been gnawing at him ever since he'd watched the footage of the intense fight between Batman and Red Hood.

"No," Bruce said sharply. "If we can't convince him—or stop him outright—we at least prevent him from taking more lives in his pursuit of a safer Gotham."

"Messing in his business is going to get him pissed," Dick commented, leaning back as he recalled past encounters with Jason.

"His methods violate our code," Damian admitted, voice low, "but even I can't deny the results. Has it ever crossed your mind, Father, that maybe Gotham needs both of you? Batman and Red Hood?" He kept his tone casual, but inside, he quietly approved of Jason's actions, something his father clearly saw as his eyes narrowed.

"Oh, so good cop–bad cop?" Dick teased, catching the implication. He knew Bruce didn't condone the bloodshed Jason brought with him, but he understood Damian's point.

"Either way, we need some kind of understanding," Dick continued. "A truce, at least, so he doesn't see us as hostiles. I don't wish to have a pistol at my face and a frigging sword on my neck just because decide to say hi when we cross paths." His voice carried a hint of grim humor.

He recalled being trapped in a cellar with Jason, feeling the heat of the flames around him when Jason left him, he was convinced he might die any second.

Then the memory of the gas station incident flashed in his mind, Jason had almost ruined his reputation as a hero in that one. And let's not forget how Jason had manipulated Black Mask just to get to Joker. Dick realized then that Jason's logic operated on a completely different wavelength from everyone else's.

"With that mouth of yours, I wouldn't be surprised if he shot your leg," Damian remarked with a smirk as though he'd delight in that sight.

Dick shot him a sharp glare but ignored it.

While Damian kept his eyes glued to the endless replay of Batman's encounter with Red Hood. Something about the way Jason moved, calculated yet brutal, pulled him in. He couldn't look away as he studied it.

- - -

Jason hadn't been able to reach Li that afternoon. With no intention of spending the day cooped up at home, he decided to treat himself to lunch at a restaurant known for its high-quality, expertly cooked steaks. It was his way of celebrating a Joker-free Gotham—and, admittedly, giving himself a small pat on the back. Even if the victory didn't feel as satisfying as he had imagined, a win was a win, and revenge well-earned deserved recognition.

A waiter, moving with the precise grace of a butler, led him to a table. Jason ordered three of the restaurant's specialty steaks, and it wasn't long before they were placed before him.

"Your meal, sir," the waiter said, bowing slightly.

Jason's eyes roamed over the dishes. The sight, the aroma, even the subtle hiss of juices on the plate—it all made his mouth water. Without hesitation, he reached for the knife and fork, slicing into the first piece and bringing it to his mouth.

The first bite was a revelation. He closed his eyes halfway, nodding in appreciation, savoring the flavors as if his mood had been lifted by the simple act of eating.

"Too bad I couldn't reach Li… I'll bring her here another time," he murmured to himself, already planning a small outing for her.

After finishing his lunch, he ordered a steak to go and left the restaurant, heading to the parking lot where his black bike waited. He had work to do—stalking Roman Sionis, studying his routines in case his arrest caused further changes, and determining the perfect moment to strike. Now that Joker was gone, Black Mask would surely tighten his security since his trump card has been sent to the grave.

'My daily life as a part-time stalker,' Jason lampooned in self deprecation. Most of his time since returning to Gotham had been spent surveilling and monitoring his targets like some overzealous shadow.

He pulled on his biking helmet, revved the engine, and shot off into the city. The sky was a muted gray, the afternoon sun hidden behind Gotham's persistent smog. He thought of the last time Black Mask had set a trap with KGBeast, almost crippling him in the process. 'That really sucked,' he recalled grimly, taking note to be catilous this time around because Black Mask was sure to get another, but the question was who.

As he wove through the streets, a sudden realization hit him. He swerved to the curb, bringing the bike to a stop. Around him, the city wore hints of holiday decor; building windows glimmered with festive lights, and a small café displayed a miniature Christmas tree in its front window.

"That's right… it's almost Christmas," he said softly, removing his helmet. He looked up at the clouded sky. "Looks like we're in for a late snow this year."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

A bitter chill settled over Gotham that night. The streets pulsed with the steady crawl of headlights—civilians driving home from long shifts, others heading out in search of distraction.

Beneath that ordinary rhythm, crime moved just as faithfully. In shadowed alleys and behind tinted windows, deals were being struck and something—always something—was being stolen.

Big Lou rode up in an elevator that did not belong to him, inside a building he had no business entering without permission. It wasn't one of his properties. It wasn't neutral ground. And he certainly hadn't secured an appointment.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Armed guards escorted him down a narrow hallway and through a set of double doors into a lavish office washed in low, amber light.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Lou?" Sophia Falcone asked from behind her desk. A glass of whiskey rested in her hand as she tilted her chin upward, cool and unimpressed. She flicked her fingers toward the guards, silently dismissing them.

"To see you, of course," Lou replied smoothly, stepping closer to the desk—and more importantly, the bottle of whiskey sitting atop it. "We are family, after all."

Sophia opened a drawer behind the desk and pulled out an empty glass, extending it toward him. Just as his fingers reached for it, she drew it back.

"You don't just show up unannounced," she said flatly as she droped the glass on the desk instead of handing it to him.

Lou ignored the warning in her tone. He reached out his hand once again, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself a drink without asking.

"So… what brings you here?" Sophia asked once he finished pouring. Lou dropped the bottle back into the bucket of ice with a dull clink, then plucked three cubes between his thick fingers and let them fall into his glass one by one.

"I already told you," he said, swirling the drink lazily. "I came to check on you. You haven't reached out since our little run-in with the Red Bat."

He lumbered over to a couch near her desk and lowered himself into it, the cushions protesting under his weight. The nickname was a deliberate—half a jab at the crimson bat emblem on Red Hood's chest, half a nod to the way the man operated like a bloodthirsty version of Batman.

"Cut the crap," Sophia replied evenly, not the least bit rattled. "If that's truly why you're here, you can leave. As you can see, I'm doing just fine." She gestured vaguely around the office. "If not, get to the fucking point. I'm busy."

Lou's gaze drifted over her desk. "Busy," he echoed under his breath. From where he sat, it looked more like a late-night spiral than hard work—paperwork pushed off to one side, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, a sweating bucket of ice cradling the whiskey bottle.

He couldn't tell whether she was trying to drown herself in the drink or set a record for most cigarettes smoked in a single sitting.

"…Right," he muttered with clear sarcasm.

He pulled his eyes back to her and leaned forward slightly. "The Red Hood is why I'm here tonight."

Sophia had already drawn a cigarette from the pack. As he spoke, she flicked open her lighter. A brief flare of flame lit her features as she brought it to the tip, one brow arching in silent interest.

"It's a good thing we accepted his offer—the smart move, too," Lou said, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "That unhinged bastard actually killed the Joker." He let out a short scoff. "Guy's completely insane."

"We didn't take his deal just to protect the business," Sophia replied, smoke curling from her lips as she exhaled. "We did it to protect the family. And ourselves." She tapped ash into the tray. "If Batman can't rein him in, what makes you think we could? Crossing him would've been suicide."

She rotated her chair halfway toward the massive window behind her desk. Gotham's city lights shimmered against the glass, reflecting faintly in her eyes.

"Especially now," she continued quietly, "that he's made it clear to everyone what happens when you test him."

Lou let out a low breath. "I'm just glad we're not on his hit list. Compliance beats resistance any day." He swirled the ice in his glass. "Nobody runs an empire from six feet under."

Sophia turned back toward him, and without another word, they both lifted their glasses in a subtle, mutual acknowledgment.

"The Joker's death shook everything," she admitted after a moment. "Not just the underworld, Gotham itself. No telling what that lunatic's next move is. I won't lie… it's got me on edge."

"Well," Lou said, leaning back into the couch, "he made an example out of Black Mask before finishing the Joker. If that arrogant prick still decides to push back instead of playing ball, what's stopping Red Hood from taking his head too?"

Sophia studied him for a beat, cigarette poised between her fingers. "Maybe there's more going on in that head of yours than I thought. Was starting to think your brain might be clouded by cholesterol"

Lou's eyes narrowed slightly. The comment sounded just close enough to an insult about his size to make him bristle.

"Either way," he went on, ignoring it, "Joker's gone. That leaves a vacuum. And if Black Mask follows…"

"—Then we step in," Sophia finished smoothly. "With Red Hood's backing."

"Expanded territory means expanded revenue," Lou said, thinking it through aloud. "Which means his monthly cut grows too. Especially once we absorb the businesses Black Mask's been squeezing." He gave a small nod. "Fair exchange."

"Game is game," Sophia replied, raising her glass once more.

They clinked their drinks from across the room—two crime bosses toasting not just a profitable arrangement, but the beginning of a new order in Gotham.

- - -

[Harley Quinn POV]

Not everyone celebrated the news of the Joker's death. While much of Gotham buzzed with shock—or relief—and Batman grieved in his own quiet, complicated way, Harley Quinn simply refused to believe it.

Not this time. Not for real.

She sat at the very top of a powerless Ferris wheel, legs dangling over the edge of the cart as the amusement park stretched out beneath her in dark, silent stillness. The rides were shut down for the night, the lights dead and without power. From up there, the whole place looked like a graveyard of memories.

And all she could see were the good times.

The way Mr. J had thrown his head back laughing as the wheel spun. The cotton candy. The fireworks they'd set off just because they could. Every inch of the park felt haunted by him.

Beside her sat her closest friend, Pamela Isley—Poison Ivy—who had quietly used her vines to carry them up to the highest cart on the wheel. It was her way of helping Harley grieve. Of giving her space to feel it. To face it.

Tears slipped down Harley's powdered cheeks as she stared out at the empty park, her smile faint and fragile.

Pamela couldn't help but think back to that morning—to the moment she'd told her.

Harley had only heard about the chaos at the bridge. The explosions. The Red Hood. And Joker being taken. Abducted, she'd assumed. Like always. Because Mr. J always came back. He always had a punchline.

But she hadn't seen the early broadcast. The one that confirmed it.

Joker was dead.

"Mr. J is dead?" Harley had repeated, head tilted slightly, blue eyes wide and glassy as she looked at Ivy.

"They confirmed it on the news," Pamela said gently, holding out her phone. Social feeds were flooded. Headlines. Clips. Speculation.

Harley took the phone with trembling hands.

Her breath hitched. A gasp tore from her throat as she covered her open mouth, staring at the screen like it might suddenly change.

"This… this has gotta be a joke," she whispered, shaking her head. "That's it. That's what it is. Puddin's pulling the biggest gag of all time."

Denial wrapped around her like armor.

She went about the rest of the day in what passed for normal—talking too fast, smiling too wide, laughing at nothing. Pamela recognized it for what it was: shock dressed up in red and black.

Later, Ivy had gently asked if there was anywhere Harley wanted to go. Somewhere that might help her process it. Somewhere that might make it real.

That was how they ended up perched inside a Ferris wheel cart long after the park had closed.

"Not even Batsy would go that far," Harley muttered, hugging her knees for a second before her usual pout began to resurface. "He'd never actually kill Mr. J. But this Red Hood guy? Total meanie. I don't like him one bit."

"He's definitely built himself a reputation," Pamela replied calmly.

At her silent command, thick green vines slithered upward, wrapping securely around both of them. The metal cart creaked as the plants lifted them even higher—above the Ferris wheel itself.

The vines twisted and flattened, weaving together into a sturdy cradle that mimicked a seat, giving them something far more stable to sit on than rusted amusement park equipment.

Harley sniffed, then ran her fingers along the smooth wood of her bat, stroking it almost absentmindedly before giving it a few light practice swings.

"Now that Mr. J's gone," she said, voice shifting, "I gotta be ready. What if that means I'm next, huh? A gal's gotta look out for herself." She swung the bat again, imagining the crack it might make against a certain red-helmeted head.

"Relax," Ivy said gently, reaching up to toy with one of Harley's pigtails. "You're not exactly his type. I doubt you're on his radar."

Harley stared out over the city lights beyond the park. "Still… Gotham's never gonna feel the same without Mr. J."

Pamela gave a small nod, though inwardly she felt something far closer to relief than pity. She had always believed Joker's hold over Harley was poisonous—twisted, manipulative, destructive. Loving him had cost Harley pieces of herself over and over again.

If anything, Ivy was just grateful Harley wasn't spiraling into some revenge quest over him.

"Y'know," Harley said suddenly, looking down from their impossible height, "it's so high up here I can practically feel my brain untangling. Like the bad thoughts are just floating away."

She sounded lighter. Clearer.

"Then let's not waste that clarity," Pamela suggested. "How about we go grab a drink?"

Harley's eyes lit up instantly, a spark of her old mischief flickering back to life.

"Ooooh, now you're talkin'! Better to drown my sorrows than swim in 'em, right?" she chirped.

The vines coiled snugly around them once more and lowered them smoothly back to the ground in one fluid, controlled descent—like nature itself was cradling Harley through the fall.


- - -

Since Black Mask's arrest and subsequent bail, Li's workload had skyrocketed. She spent her days making calls, scheduling meetings, and trying to persuade the company's legal investors—many of whom were hesitant to continue doing business with someone who was speculated to have broken Joker out of jail.

As secretary of their cosmetic empire, she had done everything in her power to keep those investors from pulling out. She patched over doubts, rebuilt trust where she could, and even sweetened deals with a few company favors. Every move was calculated to stabilize the business, to keep it afloat amid the chaos.

By the time she finally made it home, exhaustion weighed on her like lead. All she wanted was a hot shower and a chance to collapse into bed. She tossed her keys onto the counter and started toward the living room.

Her hand reached for the light switch, and as the room flooded with illumination, she froze.

There he was—Red Hood—seated in her living room again. But this time, there was no book in his hands. His fingers were laced together, and one leg swung wildly over the other as if showcasing his boots.

"Oh great… it's you again," Li said with a flat tone, showing no surprise—or annoyance—at his presence.

"Is that how you greet the man who saved you and your boss from a fiery death at the hands of a crazed clown you freed yourselves?" Red Hood replied, lounging casually in her living room as if it were his own.

"…"

"Maybe I should've just let that clown run wild before showing up," he added, the words teasing but carrying an edge of truth.

Li's lips parted, and after a pause, she said, "Thank you." His head tilted slightly, a satisfied nod acknowledging her acknowledgment. "If that's all, then you can leave," she added.

"Well, that was blunt," he replied with a smirk beneath his helmet.

"This is basically breaking and entering," she shot back, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. "I don't mind calling the police… though that would be a hassle."

He studied her for a moment. "You've had a long day, and have stress written all over you," he said.

She nodded subtly, knowing her bluff would probably get him to leave; calling the police was the last thing she intended.

He rose from his seat, taking deliberate steps toward her, boots thudding softly against the floor. "It must be exhausting, being the secretary to Black Mask—wiping up after him, covering his messes… which are frequent, I hear."

His voice dropped into something colder, and a lot more serious, like a negotiator pressing hard on a weak spot.

"Why not accept the deal I proposed last time? It'd save you from Roman's bullshit—and save the empire you work so hard to keep afloat. Otherwise… it could be destroyed, or handed off to someone sure to mismanage it."

Li's stomach tightened at the implication. "Why me? To betray my boss? That's… unthinkable," she replied. She knew exactly what he was doing—manipulating her to prevent another power vacuum, forcing her to take control of the empire before rival factions claimed it.

She didn't care about territories, only the business—and small areas she knew she could protect, where her products would remain untouched and her work uninterrupted.

And deep down, she also realized something else—that the only reason he had saved her that night was for this purpose. She didn't know he was actually the alter ego of the man she was currently seeing.

"Can I trust you to keep me safe from the other sharks circling, just waiting for a chance to grab a bite?" Li asked, her voice laced with a mix of caution and curiosity.

"You can," Red Hood replied smoothly. "Though some of Black Mask's territory will need to be divided, it's just business at the end of the day. Everybody profits. No needless bloodshed. No factions killing each other just to flex power."

Li considered this carefully. "Alright… if you actually manage to get Roman out of the picture, I'll think about your offer." Betrayal wasn't something she ever thought she'd entertain, but if Black Mask's reckless ways leads t hos demise, who was she to ignore the opportunity?

"That's what I like to hear," he said, his modulated voice hiding the smirk beneath his helmet.

And then—suddenly—the lights cut out. Darkness swallowed the room.

Li fumbled for her purse, searching for her phone, only for the lights to flick back on a few seconds later. Red Hood was gone. Not that she was surprised—anyone familiar with Gotham knew that disappearing acts were practically an habit amongst the bat vigilantes.

From a rooftop not far away, Jason glanced down at a small device in his hand. "Nothing like pulling off a smooth Houdini," he muttered in reference to a magiciam's disappearing act as he slide the portable EMP back into his utility belt with a quiet satisfaction.

With Li now on his side, eliminating Black Mask from the equation felt like a formality.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"It's been three nights," Nightwing muttered, lowering his binoculars for a second as he remained seated casually at the edge of the rooftop. "Three nights of watching Black Mask, and still no sign of our unhinged brother in the red helmet."

Perched a few feet away, Damian didn't bother looking at him at first. "Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be in Blüdhaven?" he asked dryly, irritation clear in his tone.

"And miss out on foiling Jason's latest murder plot?" Dick replied with a grin. "Not a chance." He sounded almost eager at the thought of annoying Jason.

Damian finally lowered his own binoculars and shot him a flat stare. "Father and I are more than capable of handling this. We do not require your assistance."

He returned to observing Black Mask, who was currently shouting at a cluster of his men below for reasons neither of them could quite make out.

"And let you two have all the excitement?" Dick scoffed lightly. "Yeah… no way."
He raised his binoculars again. "Man, it must be exhausting working for someone that volatile. He hasn't stopped yelling."

"I would not be surprised if he develops hypertension," Damian replied coolly, rotating his binoculars away from Black Mask and sweeping the surrounding rooftops instead. If Jason were anywhere nearby, Damian intended to spot him first.
Dick noticed the shift. "You think Jase might be watching us while we're watching Black Mask?"

"With Jason, paranoia is prudence," Damian answered without hesitation. "One cannot afford complacency."

"That's why Batman's doing his usual patrol loop," Dick added, leaning back on his palms as his legs dangled over the edge of the building. "Circling back every hour to check our six—just in case Jason decides to observe the observers."

"…"

"He keeps glancing at the window," Damian said quietly, still peering through his binoculars. "Staring at random buildings behind his office. As though he's trying to signal, 'I know you're there', to some unseen predator."

"Can you blame him?" Dick replied. "If I thought Red Hood might be hunting me, I'd be checking over my shoulder too. What would you do if you found yourself in that situation?"

He pushed himself upright from his lounging position, then rolled forward smoothly onto his hands. His legs lifted into the air in a controlled arc as he transitioned into a perfect handstand. After holding it for a beat, he flowed back down and landed lightly on his feet—right at the edge of the rooftop—balancing with effortless precision.

"Circus boy," Damian muttered flatly.

Dick winced theatrically, clutching his chest. "Wow. I swear I just felt Jason somewhere out there smiling." He narrowed his eyes at Damian. "You've definitely been spending too much time with him to pick that up."

He tapped his chin dramatically. "Wait—so I've been the topic of brotherly bonding sessions? That's adorable."

Damian rolled his eyes and ignored the jab. Instead, he answered Dick's earlier question.

"If I knew Jason was hunting me—truly hunting me, in full Red Hood mode…" he paused, lowering his binoculars and angling his head slightly to meet Dick's gaze. "I would retreat to the League of Assassins' current base rather than gamble on confronting him."

Dick blinked.

That wasn't the answer he'd expected.

It sounded pragmatic. Almost cautious—coming from someone as proud and combative as Damian.

For a moment, Dick wondered why his fiercely arrogant little brother wouldn't even entertain the idea of standing his ground.

"Wouldn't you want to prove yourself? Beat him and show you're better?" Dick asked lightly, though there was a hint of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing tone.

Damian didn't rise to it.

"I have not spent extensive time with Jason since his return," he said evenly, eyes still fixed through his binoculars. "But among us—when it comes to tracking a target and ensuring the hunt ends in success—he is the most proficient."

Dick blinked at that.

Damian shifted his stance slightly, adjusting his focus on Black Mask below. "Give him enough time," he continued with a calm but certain voice, "and even Father could fall to him in a deathmatch."

The statement briefly hung in the air.

As he spoke, Damian's mind flickered to the recorded footage of Bruce and Jason's confrontation—the speed, the brutality, the raw intent behind every strike. He didn't know what Ra's al Ghul might have thought of Jason. He didn't know where Jason had disappeared to for three years, nor how he survived Lian Yu with a gunshot wound and returned moving almost like a super-soldier.

But he had felt it.

The bloodlust.

He had seen Jason indulge it firsthand. The efficiency. The way he could erase his presence like smoke in the wind—there one second, gone the next. A predator in its purest form.

Jason's battle IQ was erratic but razor sharp. His skillset was unpredictable. His strength and speed were enhanced by something Damian couldn't quite quantify. And beneath it all was that relentless, inhuman hunger to kill.

Refined properly, Damian believed Jason would become something terrifying.

Dick exhaled slowly. Despite his surprise at Damian's conviction, he thought back to the same fight footage. "I don't buy that," he said at last.

"Maybe one day," he conceded. "But he's not there yet."

"You underestimate him," Damian replied without hesitation. "That would be your first error. And potentially your last, if you face him."

Dick arched a brow. Normally, he would have fired back with something sarcastic—something snappy and older-brotherish—but he stopped himself. If anyone here had the most recent firsthand experience with Jason, it was Damian. And right now, information mattered more than pride.

"He could be standing behind us at this very moment," Damian continued coolly, "and you wouldn't sense him."

He lowered the binoculars slightly as he spoke from experience.

"Trust me. He is exceptionally skilled at that."

His thoughts drifted briefly to that night during the Maroni drug bust—to the masked figure who had knocked him out.

Damian strongly suspected the masked figure that night had been Jason—but he hadn't had the opportunity to confirm it.

"Even Bruce would have a hard time sneaking up on me like that," Dick shot back, clearly unwilling to accept that last claim.

"Jason surpasses Father in the discipline of true stealth," Damian replied coolly, speaking less like a son and more like an assassin delivering an objective assessment.

"You cannot be serious," Dick muttered.

Still, despite himself, he turned and scanned the rooftop behind them, then the surrounding structures—just in case Red Hood had already marked them and Batman hadn't yet completed his patrol loop.


- - -

Ever since the Joker incident, Roman had been unraveling.

Between legal pressure, a blow to his legal reputation, and the lingering fear that Red Hood might slip into his bedroom while he slept, paranoia had become his constant companion.

"I keep feeling like I'm being watched," he muttered, turning sharply toward the buildings across from his office.

"You're paranoid, sir. No one is watching you," Li replied flatly, not even looking up from her tablet as she continued working.

Roman clasped his hands behind his back and strode toward the massive wall-to-wall window. He stared out at the skyline, scanning the opposite rooftops for any suspicious glint—perhaps the reflection of a sniper scope, perhaps a flicker of movement that might betray Red Hood's presence.

He held himself stiffly, posture rigid—an attempt to project confidence. To show he wasn't afraid.

But down below, his shoes shifted restlessly against the polished floor. A subtle tremor. The quiet physical tell of a man imagining a bullet punching through glass—through skull or heart—before he could even react.

"Maybe you're right," he said after a moment, with a tight voice. "But I can't shake the feeling that that bastard in red is out there somewhere… just waiting for his shot."

Li finally glanced up at him, her expression dull with indifference. "If it troubles you that much, perhaps installing a floor-to-ceiling window in your office wasn't the wisest design choice."

"I didn't exactly plan on having some psychotic bat-spawn toying with my life," Roman muttered. He studied his own reflection in the glass, fingers stroking his chin as he thought. "If he really wanted me dead, he could've done it already. So why hasn't he?"

"He did have the opportunity at the bridge," Li replied evenly, as though unaware that her employer's downfall was already quietly unfolding. "And he chose not to."

Her composure never wavered. She worked with such steady normalcy that Roman failed to notice the quiet betrayal sitting only a few feet away from him.

"Whatever that red-helmeted bastard is planning," Roman said, squaring his shoulders as if convincing himself, "I'm not going down easy."

Li glanced at him briefly. In this personal war between Black Mask and Red Hood, she felt little more than detachment. It didn't matter to her who emerged victorious—so long as her own safety and position were secured.

"Did you make contact with the mercenary I was referred to?" Roman asked, returning to his desk and lowering himself into his chair.

"Yes," Li answered simply. "He's already in Gotham. He should be here any minute."

"Good." Roman leaned back, satisfied. "The broker assured me this guy can solve my Red Hood problem. Once that's handled, business goes back to full throttle."

The broker—an intermediary Roman had hired months earlier—had helped him connect with buyers for his weapons shipments while also supplying him with select hardware.

At least, that arrangement had worked smoothly—until Red Hood began intercepting those shipments. Some were hijacked and dumped into the ocean. Others were destroyed by explosions.

Though there was no concrete proof, Black Mask was convinced Red Hood had kept part of the intercepted shipments for himself. Not just sabotage— theft.

"He's at the door, sir," Li said, glancing down at her tablet.

"Good. Send him in." Roman poured himself another drink, the amber liquid sloshing lazily in the glass.

"Let him in," Li relayed through the security channel, instructing the guards to allow the visitor upstairs.

The office doors swung open.

The mercenary strode in without hesitation, boots echoing against the polished floor as he approached Black Mask's desk. No pause or deference.

Roman studied him openly, skipping pleasantries. "I have to admit… it's unsettling. You look a little too much like the problem I'm trying to eliminate."

The man wore a red bandana mask over his face, with full combat gear on. Twin pistols rested holstered at his sides.

"Similar mask. Similar weapons," Roman continued. "For your sake, I hope you're just as capable—and just as unhinged."

The mercenary casually lifted his hands to adjust the collar of his trench coat, then pulled out the chair opposite the desk and sat down without waiting for permission.

Both Roman and Li registered the confidence—borderline arrogance.

"I'm not big on self-promotion," the mercenary replied coolly. "Let the results speak."

"What's the situation?" he asked, shifting straight to business.

Li provided a concise briefing—Red Hood's interference with shipments, the ongoing threat. Roman added that beyond serving as temporary personal security, the mercenary's primary objective was simple: bring him Red Hood. Dead or alive.

Black Mask leaned forward slightly. "You think you can handle that… Mr. Mercenary?"

The man didn't hesitate. "I understood the assignment when I accepted the contract. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."

He leaned back in his chair as he spoke with a steady voice.

"And call me Grifter."

- - -

New fic update:—

Shazam: The Last Thunder.

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Seated across from Black Mask was Grifter, a seasoned gun-for-hire brought in specifically to handle the Red Hood problem.

"There's talk going around," Grifter said evenly, his tone unreadable behind his mask, "that you were the one who set up Joker's escape from Arkham Asylum. Any truth to that?"

'Why the hell does he care?' Black Mask bristled inwardly. 'Who does this bastard think he is? Does he even understand who he's sitting across from?'

He immediately considered shutting the question down. As the employer, he decided what was shared and what stayed buried. Information was power—and he didn't hand out power freely. If he wanted the mercenary focused on the job, then that was all the man needed to know.

The carved skull fixed in its perpetual scowl tilted slightly as he prepared to assert that authority. But before he could speak, Grifter interrupted.

"Don't bother dodging it," he said calmly. "If it's true, I need to know. The truth could help me anticipate the target's reaction to your actions. And anticipating problems is how I keep you alive." That caught him off guard.

'How the hell did he read me that quickly?' Black Mask wondered, studying the mercenary more carefully now. 'Maybe he really is a professional… or maybe he's just another kind of freak.'

He locked into the stare anyway, refusing to yield an inch. It would've felt like a staring contest between the two—if not for the fact that Grifter's eyes were hidden behind that damn mask, giving away absolutely nothing.

After steadying himself and weighing his options, he decided the truth was the only viable move. At this point, his survival hinged almost entirely on Grifter's competence.

"I didn't have a choice," he began, his voice unsettlingly composed—stripped of its usual irritation and venom.

Across the room, Li paused at her desk. Her fingers stilled over the keyboard as she lifted her eyes from the glow of her laptop to study Black Mask. He drew in a long breath, the kind a man takes before confessing to something irreversible, and began recounting the truth about the Joker incident.

From where she sat, the entire exchange felt less like a strategic briefing and more like an impromptu therapy session for her employer.

"Start from the beginning," Grifter said evenly. "The reports claim Red Hood killed Joker. And somehow, Red Hood ends up on that bridge? That's no coincidence." It was a question Black Mask had been dreading.

Li shot him a brief look before returning her attention to the screen, though her focus clearly wasn't on the data anymore.

"I knew freeing that maniac would come back to bite me," Black Mask admitted.

"But I was cornered. That red-helmeted psychopath had already slaughtered several mercenaries I hired to keep him off my back. I needed a counterweight—something unpredictable, something vicious. The clown fit the bill. His dark and chaotic creativity, his twisted imagination… It could serve as a weapon. One I intended to use." He paused as his jaw tightened. "I just knew there'd be consequences. I just didn't expect them that fast."

He refilled his glass without a word, the steady motion of his hand betraying none of the tension tightening his shoulders. If he kept his composure, if he laid everything out clearly, maybe they could piece together how Red Hood had learned about the Joker breakout, or why he spared his life and went after Joker instead.

"That psycho actually agreed to work with you?" Grifter asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Everyone's got a price," Black Mask replied. "Even that deranged freak." His jaw flexed as irritation seeped into his tone. "He agreed to help me eliminate Red Hood, in exchange for his freedom."

He scoffed bitterly. "Didn't even last ten minutes. The moment we sealed the deal, he turned on me and nearly barbequed me alive."

From her desk, Li caught the subtle omission—no mention of her or the others who had been trapped in that vehicle with him. But she wasn't surprised. Self-preservation had always been his dominant trait.

"Get to the part where Red Hood arrived," Grifter cut in, uninterested in Joker's theatrics. Beyond simple curiosity, he was trying to understand why Red Hood had chosen to kill Joker instead of finishing the job on Black Mask, especially after relentlessly hunting him.

"That bastard hogtied me and soaked me in gasoline," Black Mask snapped, anger creeping into his voice as the memory resurfaced. "The way he looked at me… the way he laughed while flicking that lighter—" He swallowed hard. "I still see it when I try to sleep."

He exhaled sharply. "And if that wasn't enough, I am haunted by the idea of waking up later with a gun pressed to my skull by Red Hood himself? That kind of paranoia doesn't just fade. I haven't had a full night's rest since."

Catching himself veering off course, he forced his tone back under control and continued with the details his mercenary bodyguard was actually waiting for.

"Can't tell if it was dumb luck or some sick punchline," Black Mask muttered. "But that red-bat freak shot the lighter right out of the clown's hand and knocked him away from us." His grip tightened around the glass. "Before he disappeared, he said I owed him one."

He let out a dry laugh. "I felt nauseous… humiliated. But I was alive. Saved from burning to death, by him of all people."

"Is that everything?" Grifter asked with a leveled voice, though the intensity behind his mask tightened.

"That's it. A second later I heard another gunshot. Next thing I knew, our wrecked vehicle was swarming with cops."

Grifter folded his arms, thinking it through. "It's possible he didn't shoot you because you were drenched in gasoline. Or maybe he left you alive for another reason."

"Or he bolted because of the sirens," Black Mask countered. "Outnumbered, no time to juggle me, Joker, and half the GCPD. So he grabbed the bigger prize." His eyes darkened. "Maybe he decided to finish what Batman never would."

Grifter went quiet at that, weighing the angle. Then another possibility surfaced. "What if Joker was the objective from the start? Not you. You were just… collateral."

Black Mask stroked his chin slowly, drink hovering in his hand. "He acts as a vigilante, doesn't he? Unlike Batman, he's not shackled by rules. If he wanted to make a statement, going after Joker makes sense. The clown was a larger predator than me—more chaotic, even more dangerous."

"For now, we don't have enough to draw a firm conclusion," Grifter said. "But let's consider the possibility. If he manipulated the situation just to get close to Joker…" His tone hardened slightly.

"Then he might be more clever than the erratic personality he presents himself to be, if he somehow managed to manipulate you into bringing him the clown."

Black Mask's arm froze mid-motion, the rim of his glass suspended inches from his mouth.

He barked out a short laugh and set the glass down with a dull clink.

"Someone that reckless isn't some grand strategist," he scoffed. "And I made that call myself. There's no way he could've predicted I'd turn to a lunatic like Joker instead of hiring competent players from the underworld. That was my decision."

Grifter gave a slow, measured nod. That explanation held more weight than the idea of Black Mask being maneuvered like a pawn. If manipulation really had been involved, then Red Hood was operating on a level far more calculating and far more dangerous, than he'd shown so far.

With no concrete answers to extract and no clear motive to pin down, Grifter shifted gears. It was time to establish terms.

"I understand you're used to running things your way," he said evenly. "But as your personal security, there will be adjustments. Procedures I'll enforce. If I give an instruction, you follow it. Even if it's a down play on your ego, there should be no resistance. It's about keeping you alive, your ego won't help you with that."

At her desk, Li couldn't help the brief glance she shot their way. Hearing someone tell her boss—directly, without hesitation—to take orders was almost surreal.

Black Mask arched a brow, his right eye twitching faintly as irritation flared. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Was clearly written on his expression.

Then reality settled in. Grifter wasn't an underling. He was hired protection. And if staying breathing meant swallowing a bit of pride and following directives, then so be it.

He drew in a slow breath, forcing the irritation down.

"As long as it keeps me alive, I can live with that," he said evenly. "But don't push it." He warned.

"Good." Grifter didn't waste time. There was something that had been bothering him since the second he walked into the office.

"I shouldn't have to explain why that window is a liability." He tilted his chin toward the massive pane of glass stretching behind Black Mask's desk. "You're practically inviting a sniper to take a clean shot."

Black Mask resisted the urge to glance back. "I've considered that. If he wanted me dead from a distance, he would've done it by now." Even as he said it, a cold thread of unease tightened in his gut. Still, his voice remained steady.

He had already planned to reinforce the glass. Now he would simply frame it as complying with his bodyguard's recommendation.

Grifter studied him for a moment. "If that's true, then he's not interested in a distant kill." He leaned back slightly in his chair. "Which means he wants it up close and personal."

Black Mask reclined as well, steepling his fingers. "Then that works in our favor," he said, masking his unease with confidence.

"Up close, we can prepare for him." Grifter added.

- - -

Over the past couple of days and nights, I've stalked and observed Black Mask in preparation for a fun hunt. But Batman and my annoying brothers are keeping tabs on him at night as if they were protecting him from the shadows. Protecting him from me.

Yeah, that's right…I've got one heck of a nosy family.

If I were to engage him, I might end up having to also deal with them. Yes, I could snip him, but that would be boring. It'd eliminate the thrill and suspensive relationship I have built between Black Mask and I. It's almost like courting him from the view point of a stalker.

I want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes that yes—he is about to die. Make him feel the dread of death just like how he felt on the bridge with Joker.

Ahh…the feel of delivering a similar treatment he has given to so many in the past would be quite ironic, the slow torture before death should make him feel like the karmic recoil of his past actions had come to bite him on the ass.

Looking through the scope of my sniper rifle, I spotted a masked weirdo in combat gear seated across Black Mask's desk. I see, he must be KGBeast's replacement, probably hired to protect that skull-faced scum while intending to hunt me—the hunter.

Either way, I plan to make my first move tonight. The appearance of that guy, who's probably a mercenary, does not change anything. I had expected him to make such a move.

Tonight was supposed to be my opening act to let Black Mask know I hadn't forgotten about him, then kidnap his ass before ending him.

But I can't make my move if those nosey brothers of mine are still mounting their posts. Don't these guys get tired of trying to interfere with my objectives?

It doesn't matter either way. Three nights of this and I've set a plan in motion to lure them away for me to do my thing, and get my hands on Black Mask.

What might my plan be, you may ask? Well it's quite simple, cause enough ruckus to pull them away.

How? You might ask. Well, that's easy, with this detonator of mine which it's meant to activate two bombs strapped to the sides of a highway.

A little ruckus caused by a not-so-big of an explosion, but enough to lure those boys away.

Let's see whether Batman and his boys prioritize civilian safety over meddling in my affairs.

With a non-hesitant push of the button.

Boom.

The blast rolled through the night, a sharp concussion followed by a rising column of smoke. Even from my vantage point, I could hear it—the symphony of a chaotic night. Screeching tires. Crunching metal. A chorus of horns blaring in panicked frustration as vehicles collide and pile up.

Right on cue, Night Wing and Robin reached for their coms as if listening to orders from Batman—obviously.

They rushed towards the scene, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

We can finally get this party started.

With a quick change of position to a closer vantage point, I unbuckled a case and loaded an RPG.

Through the scope, I could se Black Mask and his new masked companion. They must be having quite the conversation, they're still talking.

Well… it would be rude to interrupt without announcing myself first.

Wouldn't want Black Mask and his new guard getting blown away without realizing who sent their regards. How about a little scare to indicate the count down for the final moments of Roman Sionis.

But my sweet Li is still in there, might as well get her out before launching an RPG into her office. Just because I used her doesn't mean I don't have feelings for her, might as well not get my name up the list of the most horrible boyfriends in history.