The Man And The Hood

[Hms Scarborough]

He grabbed a couple other stuffs

Click to shrink...

Some other things? maybe

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

After robbing a couple of gang members who were too stupid or too confident to think someone would dare cross them, Jason had finally carved out a sliver of space for himself on the south side of Gotham City.

Not exactly prime real estate, more like a roach motel stacked in concrete and bad decisions—but it was home, or at least the closest thing he'd allow himself to have.

The apartment sat at the very top of a beat-up building that leaned more sideways than upright, like it regretted ever being constructed. But that was part of the appeal.

Jason had deliberately chosen this location for its anonymity and inaccessibility. No working security cameras. No nosy neighbors who stayed awake past eleven.

And more importantly, no clear sight lines for anyone trying to tail him. If he needed to go dark, he could—twisting and turning through Gotham's labyrinthine back alleys, taking detours so winding even Google Maps would throw its hands up.

If things got too hot, there was always the textile warehouse near the docks. Now, he had options. A tactical luxury.

Lucky for him, the landlord was a bloated, graying man with more interest in rent checks than personal details. He didn't ask questions, especially not when Jason paid six months in advance. In cash.

That kind of gesture made the landlord practically fall in love. Jason could probably store a crate of human heads in the hallway, and the old man wouldn't blink—so long as he kept the money flowing.

The neighbors? Ghosts. At least that's what they thought of him. He'd never said more than two words to any of them. His schedule ensured that he always returned long past midnight, slipping in through his window like a shadow with nowhere to rest.

When he left early, often just after dawn, it was usually to restock supplies, tail someone on his hit list, or blend into the city crowd. That's when he used the front door—because sometimes, it paid to look normal.

Earlier that day, though, there had been an unexpected break in the routine.

He'd run into an old lady struggling to carry two full bags of groceries up the stairs. The elevator was out of service again and halfway into a month of maintenance.

Jason wasn't in the habit of doing favors, but something about the old lady's quiet determination stirred something in him.

So he offered a hand.

She smiled, surprised and grateful. He took the bags, slow-walked up the narrow stairwell, listening to the echo of their footsteps bounce off the walls like ghosts of conversations past.

The building smelled of mildew, old spaghetti sauce, and faintly of piss—layers of urban rot baked into the walls.

When they reached her door, just two units away from his own, she turned to thank him.

Jason gave a soft smile in return. Polite. Genuine, even. A rare warmth touched his face, so honest that if she'd glimpsed what lay beneath, what he was planning for the evening, she might've screamed and slammed her door shut.

Because that smile? That smile belonged to a man with a kill list.

And tonight, the first name was about to get scratched off.

- - -

As the sun dipped below Gotham's skyline, the city choked under its usual neon haze, flickering signs and broken street lamps casting jagged shadows along the apartment blocks.

Inside Jason's flat, it was nearly pitch black. Most of the space was left untouched by artificial light, except for one corner—a single exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling hummed with a faint electric buzz, casting a pool of amber across the room like a lazy spotlight.

The curtains were pulled tight. Blackout fabric. Not just for sleep—for secrecy. Any wandering eyes would see nothing but the dark shape of drawn blinds.

Jason stood like a statue, back straight, eyes locked on his investigation board. It loomed over the desk like a madman's mural—newspaper clippings, photos, red thread, maps, and annotated reports.

Faces of crime bosses, names, and notes in his sharp, angular handwriting. Targets. Traitors. Clues.

At the center was a printout of the Joker's face, taunting and grinning, stabbed through with a hunting knife.

After a moment of stillness, he moved. Deliberate. Quiet.

He crossed the apartment and entered the small bathroom. From beneath the sink, he dragged out an old wooden stool and placed it beneath the ceiling vent.

With one swift motion, he popped the vent open and reached inside. Dust and cobwebs spilled out. His fingers gripped something cold, the metallic edge of a medium-sized trunk.

Lowering it carefully, he took it into the living room. It hit the wooden floor with a soft thud, and he crouched beside it, flipping the latches with practiced ease.

Inside lay the tools of his nocturnal profession, gear that was lethal, tactical, and deeply personal.

He stared at it for a long beat, letting the gravity of the night wash over him.

First, the black tactical pants, reinforced at the thighs, with padded knees designed for both protection and swift, fluid movement.

He slid into them effortlessly. Next were the boots, steel-toed and combat-ready. They weren't just for walking, they were for stomping, kicking, and surviving.

He pulled on his torso armor next, kevlar-infused and sculpted to fit under his brown leather jacket, which smelled like gunpowder.

On the chest of the armor was a bold, crimson bat symbol, purposely faded and scratched, but unmistakable. A ghost of his past as Batman's protégé. A memory that refused to die.

Then came the gloves. Black with crimson accents, padded and armored across the knuckles, built for brutal efficiency. Every item he wore spoke to a war he never stopped fighting.

With the trunk now nearly empty, he turned toward the couch. On its handle rested his utility belt, lazily draped but meticulously maintained.

It was similar in design to Batman's, but its contents were another story. This wasn't a belt meant to save lives, it was built to end them.

On one side: smoke pellets, flashbangs, grenades, and C4 packs. Tools of chaos.

On the other: sleek, silver throwing knives, modified shuriken, and compact tech.

And in the rear compartments were first aid supplies, lockpicks, extra clips of ammunition. Essentials.

He strapped it on, its familiar weight grounding him.

Next stop, the weapons table.

On the far end of the room sat a black duffle bag, heavy and long, with its zipper already halfway open. He approached it like a man greeting an old friend.

Inside, a symphony of firearms—each deadly, each handpicked. He unpacked them slowly.

A submachine gun. A short-barreled assault rifle. The heft of each weapon told him everything he needed to know— balance, recoil, stopping power.

Then, the sniper rifle—sleek, deadly, and silent. He lifted it to his eye and peered through the scope. The crosshairs were crystal clear, ready for precision.

Perfect for the coming war.

But the real smile came when he picked up the twin pistols.

.40 caliber. Custom-machined. Extended mags, fast draw, clean trigger pull. Beautiful, brutal things. He checked the slides, loaded the mags, and strapped them into his side holsters with a smirk that lasted longer than he meant it to.

Back to the gear, a grappling hook, slightly janky compared to Bruce's elegant tech, but functional enough. Explosive gel and remote detonators. Into the belt they went.

Then, his melee options.

A dagger, forged during his time with the League of Assassins. New and ready to be blood-stained, with the hilt wrapped in custom leather. That went to his thigh.

Next, the sword. Longer, with red-and-black accents on the hilt, sharp enough to split bone. He strapped it to his back. A memento of his time in the League and his training under Ra's al Ghul.

Finally, the crowbar.

Brutal. Raw. Covered in minor modifications, pikes, weight adjustments but still the same weapon that once nearly killed him.

A relic of the Joker. A reminder of pain. And power.

He positioned it alongside his sword—two scars, two stories.

Then he turned to the mannequin by the wall.

The helmet waited. Glossy red, armored, and sculpted into a smooth, emotionless shape. The lenses—blank white at first, blinked to red as they activated, then to black. Thermal, night vision, tracking overlays.

With the helmet on, he was no longer Jason.

He was Red Hood.

And tonight?

Tonight was the beginning of the most bloody chess game Gotham would ever see.

Time to hunt.

- - -

He stood alone atop a derelict rooftop, the crumbling edge of the building beneath his boots dusted with soot and broken gravel.

Gotham stretched out before him in cold silence, its jagged skyline lit only by the flickering lights of streetlamps and the faint glow of neon signs in the distance.

A low fog crawled across the city's bones like a living thing, wrapping alleyways and rooftops in its pale embrace. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe, or the city's ever-churning rot.

In his gloved hand, he held his helmet, its sleek, crimson shell reflecting the dim city light in faint glimmers.

He stared down at his target below—the Bertinelli compound. Guard posts, tight security, a perimeter laced with men holding rifles they didn't fully know how to use.

Their confidence was false, born from decades of power and complacency. Jason knew better. He'd been watching them for weeks.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his breath visible in the night air. Then, with practiced ease, he raised the helmet to his head. The shell slid over his face with a soft hiss of seal and steel, locking in place with an almost comforting click.

A strange sensation washed over him.
"What is this… feeling?" he muttered under his breath, voice barely more than a ghost in the wind. The words drifted off into the silence, unheard by anyone but himself—and maybe the city, if it ever cared to listen.

It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't the thrill of the hunt. No. This was something else.
He stood motionless, still as a statue, as the realization crept in.

The moment the helmet clicked into place, something shifted inside him.
The tension he constantly carried in his shoulders—the tight coil of restraint, of pressure to hold back thirst for blood—loosened. His chest felt lighter, his breath came easier.

The buzzing static of internal chaos faded into something quieter, more focused.
Relief.

Not just mental, but physical, visceral. Like stepping out of a cage he didn't know he was locked in.

He was free.

Free from the weight of pretending to be fine. Free from the tug-of-war between the monster inside him and the man who still clung to the idea of morality.

With the helmet on, he didn't have to be conflicted. He could just act. Just move. Just punish.

But that freedom? That scared the shit out of him.

He wasn't stupid. He knew what it meant to feel peace in the midst of violence. He knew what it meant to crave the clarity that came with embracing the bloodlust, instead of bottling it up.

But fear never made him hesitate. He wasn't some coward running from the dark corners of his own mind.

No. He was going to see this through.
He straightened up, adjusting his stance as the final pieces of his plan fell into place. His crimson helmet reflected the city back at itself—distorted, warped, dripping with its own sins.

His grip tightened at his sides. The Bertinellis would feel him tonight, not as a whisper in the dark, but as a red storm crashing through their gates.

These weren't second thoughts. He didn't hesitate. His conviction had never wavered.

Cold feet weren't part of the plan.

Not tonight.

And certainly not ever.

- - -

Want early access to upcoming chapters? Support me on Patreon to read ahead!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason had planned this down to the last, intimate detail, every move, every bullet, every scream and drop of blood that would soak into Gotham's underworld tonight like ink into a dying page.

The Bertinellis were his first stroke of violence, an opening act of terror. Weakened from within by bitter infighting and picked apart at the edges by the encroaching Falcone family, they were ripe. Vulnerable. Sloppy.

They wouldn't see him coming, and by the time they did, they'd be choking on their own blood, praying to gods that had long since abandoned Gotham.

He'd spent weeks preparing for this moment. Every lead, every supply run, every whisper on the street folded neatly into the plan. The arms store robbery had been clean, surgical, silent. No alarms, no witnesses, no evidence left behind. Just another ghost in a city that bred them.

Now, the weight of the .40 calibers on his thighs was reassuring, almost comforting.

The metal was cold, familiar. These weapons weren't just tools. they were extensions of himself, mechanical fangs forged for one purpose, to punish.

Grenades, explosives, steel wire coiled like a serpent inside his pack, each item with a job, each one picked with purpose.

The League of Assassins had drilled the concept into him, ruthlessness wasn't about emotion. It was about efficiency. Clean. Precise. Unapologetic. And tonight, he intended to honor that philosophy with fire and lead.

Midnight blanketed the city in a thin fog, and the Bertinelli stronghold loomed like a decaying monument to false wealth. A gaudy penthouse rotting atop a failed luxury development.

Jason moved like smoke, scaling the rusted fire escape with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times in worse weather.

His boots made no sound on the metal grates as he climbed higher, every muscle fluid and focused.

The first sentry never stood a chance.

A gloved hand wrapped around the man's mouth mid-yawn, jerking him back into the shadows.

The combat knife slid in under his ribcage, slicing through muscle and lung with a wet, grating sound. The man jerked violently, blood soaking through his shirt in thick, hot pulses.

Jason held him there, chest to back, until the body went limp. He let the corpse ease down gently, like lowering a heavy coat onto the ground.

The second guard stood by the rooftop door, a cigarette glowing in the dark like a tiny beacon of stupidity. Jason didn't bother with stealth this time.

One suppressed round.

The bullet punched through the man's temple, his skull bursting like a cracked egg against the brick. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and landed in a puddle of blood, sizzling faintly as the ember drowned.

Inside, it was even worse.

The Bertinelli enforcers lounged like they owned the world, boozing, betting, laughing over cards. The air inside stank of cheap liquor, body odor, and cigar smoke.

The furniture was worn, the wallpaper peeling, a mockery of sophistication now reduced to mold-stained corners and flickering lights.

They didn't notice the red-helmeted figure slip into the room, the soft clunk of metal boots muffled by the hum of their laughter.

Until the first grenade hit the floor.

"Fire in the hole," Jason muttered, voice low and casual, like he was announcing dinner.

The explosion tore through the room with a sound that cracked the walls and shattered the past.

A brutal symphony of flame and fragmentation. One enforcer was obliterated, just meat and heat and screaming remnants. Another staggered back, clutching the jagged edge of metal buried in his throat, blood pouring from his mouth as his legs buckled beneath him.

Then came the gunfire.

Jason was in motion before the smoke even cleared. His Twin Pistols roared with each pull of the trigger, muzzle flashes painting his armor in flickers of gold and red.

A bullet caught one thug mid-sentence, tearing his jaw clean off, teeth and gore spraying across the table in a pink mist.

Another shot struck home just above the brow, the man's head snapping back as the exit wound painted the wall behind him in a grotesque mural.

One tried to run. Didn't make it.

The last with any fight in him charged with a switchblade and a death wish. Jason sidestepped, fluid and fast, grabbing the man's wrist mid-swing. Bone cracked with a sickening crunch as Jason twisted.

The scream that followed was cut off when he drove the knife into the man's throat, steel sawing through cartilage and windpipe. He twisted the blade, then ripped it free. A geyser of blood sprayed across the wall like graffiti.

Silence fell.

Only one man remained, trembling behind an overturned table, curled in on himself like a rat in a trap. The bookkeeper.

Round face pale, eyes wide, his pants dark with piss. He looked up and found only the smooth, blank gaze of the red helmet staring back.

Jason reached over the table, grabbed the man by the collar, and hauled him to his feet.

"You live," he said, voice cold and guttural through the modulator. "You go to Sofia Falcone. You tell her the Red Hood owns this turf now. If she steps one toe across the line, she burns with the rest."

He shoved the man forward.

The bookkeeper stumbled over a corpse, nearly face-planting in a pool of blood, but kept going, slipping and scrambling, his panicked sobs echoing off the corridor walls until they disappeared into the night.

Jason stood amidst the carnage—shell casings littering the floor, smoke hanging in the air like a curtain, blood creeping across cracked tiles. He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible beneath the soft hiss of his helmet's filters.

With smooth, practiced hands, he reloaded his pistols, each click and snap deliberate, methodical.

Phase one was done.

A message had been sent.

Gotham would learn.
And Gotham would fear the Red Hood.

- - -

The night air still hung heavy with the scent of smoke, gunpowder, and something else—something older, like rot buried under concrete, unearthed too suddenly. The silence that followed wrapped around the streets like a thick, suffocating oil slick, too dense to cut through.

Gotham didn't just fall quiet—it recoiled, as though the city itself was trying to forget what had just taken place. Word always traveled fast in Gotham, but this... this wasn't just another hit or turf war.

This was a statement. And the first poor soul burdened with carrying it was the Bertinelli bookkeeper—one of the few who staggered out of that slaughterhouse alive. Not spared by luck. Not by mercy. But by deliberate choice.

He reached the safehouse hours later, looking less like a man and more like a shell wearing human skin. His steps were jagged, mechanical, like each movement had to be forced through a wall of invisible resistance.

The blood on his clothes wasn't his, but the weight of it pressed down like guilt made tangible. He stank of death and panic, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was paper-thin, brittle from too many screams swallowed whole.

"Red Hood," he said, more to the air than to Arturo, who sat across the table. "Red mask. There wasn't a warning—just shots. Screams. Bones. Blood everywhere. It—he didn't stop. Not once."

His hands trembled uncontrollably. The empty space between his fingers seemed to shake more than the flesh itself, as if even the air refused to stay still around him, almost shivering. Arturo said nothing.

The acting head of the fractured Bertinelli operation sat stiff-backed in a leather chair, arms crossed over a pressed shirt rolled at the sleeves.

His face was clean-shaven, square-jawed and prematurely weathered. He was young for the role he carried, but his eyes, had already buried more men than his age would suggest.

When the man finished his recount, Arturo didn't speak. Not immediately. He looked past the bookkeeper for a beat, his eyes hard and calculating. Then, without a word, he reached for the phone resting beside a spread of photos and tactical maps.

He dialed.

Miles away, beneath the dimmed glow of antique sconces and behind walls that had heard more secrets than prayers, Sofia Falcone sat at the far end of a long, polished oak table.

She held a porcelain espresso cup delicately between two fingers, her knuckles rough and calloused despite the manicured control in her movements.

Her presence filled the room before her voice ever did. Even seated, she radiated dominance—the type not taught, but bred.

The heavy velvet curtains behind her held back the city's cold light, casting the room in hues of amber and shadows. Somewhere in the background, a vinyl record played a low, melancholy jazz tune, something her father used to spin.

She answered the call.

"Arturo," she greeted flatly, no warmth, just recognition.

He spoke. Slowly, methodically, walking her through every detail, his voice low, but tense.

As he spoke, her expression didn't change, not at first. But her eyes… those eyes narrowed like a blade being drawn, their amber flecks flickering under the glow of the sconces. Not with surprise, but something deeper. Intrigue. Irritation. Thought.

When he was done, silence stretched across the line like a wire pulled taut.

Sofia set her espresso cup down with calm precision, the tiny click of porcelain against wood echoing like a punctuation mark. She leaned back slightly, resting her thick forearms on the carved arms of the chair.

"So…" she said at last, her voice smoky and low, like gravel soaked in whiskey. "This Red Hood decided to play butcher."

She reached across the table and retrieved a cigarette case, flipping it open with one thumb. The silver glinted, etched with the Falcone family crest—an heirloom of brutal legacy.

She lit the cigarette with a flick of her father's old lighter, its flame dancing briefly in the dimness before dying into a spiral of rising smoke.

"And he left the bookkeeper alive," she continued, exhaling through her nose like a dragon choosing not to incinerate. "How considerate."

The room shifted. Subtle, but palpable.

Two of her lieutenants, seated nearby in the low chairs, exchanged a glance—silent but bristling. One tapped the edge of his phone nervously against his leg. The other froze mid-scroll. No one dared to interject.

"You say they didn't stand a chance?" she murmured, though she already knew the answer. "Of course they didn't. Those men were on my orders. It was a hand-off. Peaceful. Bertinelli turf, but I let them hold their corner—out of respect."

She drew on her cigarette again, eyes never leaving the swirling smoke. Ash fell into a cut crystal tray like snowflakes landing on marble.

"And this masked dog storms in, guns down six of our people—our people, like they were nothing. Then leaves one breathing just long enough to whisper the tale into your ears."

Her tone never rose. That was the terrifying part. She didn't need to shout. Her anger was the kind that didn't burn—it crushed.

Sofia rose slowly from her chair. Every movement deliberate, echoing the silence of the estate. She was tall, built broad across the shoulders, shaped by years of training and war disguised as business. The kind of woman whose strength didn't have to be visible to be felt.

She walked to the nearest window, pulling back the curtain just enough to glimpse Gotham's twisted beauty in the distance. The city flickered in the night like a fire that refused to die, all glitter and menace.

"I doubt someone like that makes accidents," she said, almost thoughtfully. "He didn't spare that man for mercy. He left him alive so we'd know. So I'd know."

On the speakerphone, Arturo's voice buzzed in again, quieter now. "Currently, his whereabouts are unknown. Say the word and we would scatter across the city in search of this guy."

Sofia stood in stillness for a moment longer, then turned and crushed the cigarette into the tray.

"No," she said softly, but the finality in her tone sliced through the room in stillness.

Arturo hesitated. Even her lieutenants looked up, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"We don't react," she said, walking slowly back to her seat. "Not like amateurs. That's exactly what he's baiting. Fury. Recklessness. And we don't give that. Not to ghosts with guns."

She picked up the receiver this time, resting her elbow on the table. Her tone shifted, colder, clearer, every word honed like steel against whetstone.

"I want eyes. Everywhere he's been in the last six months. Every port. Every contact. Every shithole bar that might remember his name. I want patterns. I want pressure points. Find out why he's targeting us now—what made him believe the Falcones were open for business."

She paused, then added with lethal softness: "And Arturo… keep the bookkeeper alive. I want him breathing, blinking, and surrounded. Document everything. Red Hood left him for a reason, and I want to know if he's just the messenger—or the fuse."

She hung up before he could respond.

The room stood frozen in her wake, the record having spun to silence, letting the soft, living hum of the city fill the space between breaths. One of her lieutenants finally dared to speak.

"You think it's personal?" he asked, voice pitched low, almost a whisper.

Sofia turned her gaze toward him. She didn't smile, but the ghost of one touched her lips—tight, humorless, and dangerous.

"In this city?" she murmured, her stare lingering in the shadows along the wall. "Everything's personal."

Then, without fanfare, she poured herself another espresso, steady as a heartbeat.

The massacre hadn't just taken lives—it had drawn a battle line across Gotham's underworld. And soon, Red Hood would learn that crossing the Falcones wasn't a challenge.

It was an invitation for his own demise.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The morning news had a grim story to tell.

It carried footage and headlines of what reporters were already calling the most grotesque and fearsome massacre Gotham City had seen in recent years.

The images were blurred, but the horror bled through—flashing red and blue lights, a tarp-covered street soaked in dark crimson, and shaken bystanders held back by trembling yellow tape.

Panic echoed through the city as the broadcast ran on repeat. For Gotham, a place that had seen monsters, masks, and maniacs, this was saying something.

Commissioner James Gordon, visibly tired and grim-faced, stood in front of flashing cameras but gave little to work with. He kept his answers short and clipped.

"The GCPD is currently investigating," he said, voice level despite the shadows under his eyes. "No suspects at this time. The identities of those responsible remain unknown."

He didn't say much more than that.

The official line blamed gang violence—likely a rival faction taking out a branch of the notorious Bertinelli crime family.

But those who knew Gotham well could feel something different hanging in the air, something colder. Whatever happened that night, it hadn't been business as usual.

Later that evening, long after the sun dipped behind the silhouette of crumbling buildings and flickering neon, the Bat-Signal stretched across the night sky like a silent call to war.

It boldy hung there, sharp-edged—glowing against the fog that rolled over the city rooftops like smoke from a dying fire.

James Gordon stood alone on the GCPD rooftop, shoulders hunched inside his brown trench coat. The night was cool, wind rustling the hem of his coat as he lit a cigarette.

The red glow of its tip pulsed faintly in the dark, a tiny flame struggling against the vast shadows that blanketed Gotham.

He was halfway through his first drag when a voice came from behind him.

"Commissioner."

"Jesus Christ!" Gordon flinched hard, his cigarette falling from between his fingers and bouncing once on the damp rooftop before dying out. His hand went instinctively to his chest, his heart pounding.

"Can't you make your entrance like a normal person?" he muttered, slowly turning to face the darkness behind him.

Two white, pupil-less eyes stared back from the shadows, emotionless and still.

"Been doing this for years, and I'm still not used to you sneaking up on me," Gordon added, trying to catch his breath. "At this rate, a heart attack's damn near inevitable."

Batman stepped forward, the rustle of his cape barely audible as he approached the rooftop edge.

"Stop smoking those," he said with that same gravel-thick voice. "You might live longer than you think."

"These?" Gordon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another cigarette from a worn pack, sliding it between his lips.

His hands were steadier now, but the lines on his face betrayed the fatigue. With a flick of a lighter from his slacks, he lit it again and exhaled a long, curling stream of smoke that danced upward and vanished into the night.

"They help keep me sane," he said. "Otherwise, this city would've cracked me wide open years ago."

Neither man spoke for a moment. They stood side by side at the rooftop's edge, overlooking Gotham's skyline.

The city stretched beneath them—steel towers and brick tenements, blinking signs and moving headlights, a sprawling machine that never truly slept. From this height, the city almost looked beautiful. Almost.

"So," Batman began, his voice low and steady, "what do we have on the case?"

He didn't mention that he had already accessed police servers or reviewed early reports. There was no need. Gordon didn't ask either.

"Got lucky this morning," Gordon said, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke. "We picked up a witness. The guy was caught on a street-facing ATM camera just outside the area. Covered in blood, terrified out of his mind. Looked like he was running for his life."

Batman's eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"The camera picked up a decent frame of him sprinting, probably towards his car," Gordon continued. "Ran facial recognition, identified him fast. Picked him up a few hours later stepping out of some sleazy bar on the East End. Still drunk. Looked like he was trying to drown whatever memory was eating him alive."

Batman processed that. Odd—it wasn't in the case files he'd accessed earlier. That meant the data hadn't been digitized yet. A raw lead, unlogged. Probably too fresh to show up on any system he had tapped into. He made a mental note.

"Did you get anything out of him?" Batman asked, the wind pulling at his cape.

"Took some doing. The guy was loyal to the Bertinellis—wasn't exactly eager to talk," Gordon explained. "But after we threatened to charge him as an insider, make him the fall guy for the whole bloodbath, he cracked. Gave us two things."

Batman said nothing, his silence inviting Gordon to continue.

"First—he claims it wasn't a gang. Not a group. Not a crew. Just… one guy."

Batman's brow furrowed. It didn't explain the surgical precision of the attack, but it was still hard to believe.

The crime scene had suggested multiple attackers—gunfire from different angles, blade wounds too swift and precise to be random. But if it truly was one person…

"Are you saying a single individual was responsible?" he asked, his voice even, but skeptical.

"Yeah. Hard to believe, I know," Gordon said. "But hey—it's Gotham. We've seen worse."

Batman didn't argue the point. He'd once fought a man who wore human skin as a mask. Anything was possible.

"And the second thing?" he asked.

Gordon took a final puff from his cigarette, exhaled, and let the ember die between his fingers. He flicked it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot before speaking.

"He gave us a name," he said, watching Batman out of the corner of his eye.

Batman turned slightly, his expression unreadable.

"Red Hood."

A long silence followed.

"Never heard of him," Batman finally said.

"Neither have we. No records, no priors, not even an alias we've seen before. Guy's a ghost. Just a red helmet. That's all we have."

Batman's jaw tightened slightly beneath the mask. "Red Hood…"

"Could be a new player," Gordon offered. "Or just another mercenary passing through."

"You really don't know who he is?"

"Not a clue," Batman answered, though the name stirred something vague—an old rumor, maybe, but nothing concrete.

"Then this next part might surprise you."

Batman didn't respond. He doubted anything Gordon said could truly shock him. But he waited.

"The witness described something else. Said this guy—Red Hood—had a red bat symbol across his chest."

Batman turned fully now, eyes narrowing behind the mask.

"What?"

The word came out quietly, more to himself than Gordon. He didn't show any outward emotion, but inside, gears were turning. That wasn't something he could ignore.

"That's why I kept this off-record," Gordon said. "Didn't want it spreading through the precinct. You know how rumors go. Some of the boys were already whispering that maybe… maybe you'd finally had enough. Snapped. Went rogue."

Batman said nothing, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"But then we got confirmation you were at the eastern docks busting the Triads that same night. That helped. Shut the rumors down before they spread any further."

"I'll look into it," Batman said, voice low.

"Please do," Gordon replied. "And I'll keep you posted on anything else we find."

Another silence passed.

When Gordon turned to his right again, Batman was gone. No rustle, no movement—just the empty rooftop and the sigh of the wind.

Gordon shook his head with a tired smile. "I hate it when he does that," he muttered.

And once again, the night swallowed Gotham whole.

- - -

Back at his apartment, Jason stood in front of a cluttered investigation board, the faint hum of the city outside barely penetrating the thick glass of the window behind him. With a red marker in hand, he leaned in and drew a confident line through a name on the list—The Bertinellis.

It was a clean job. No wounds, no heat, no trace. The message was sent loud and clear, not even the most powerful and well-connected crime families were safe. They bled just like everyone else—and Jason had just proven it.

He stepped back, eyeing the rest of the board as if it were a chessboard. One move down. Now it was time to make the second.

Later that night, Jason positioned himself on top of a crane looming over Gotham's industrial docks. The breeze was cold at this height, laced with the scent of oil, salt, and the faint stink of urban decay.

From his elevated perch, the distant lights of the city blinked like scattered embers in the gloom, casting long shadows that danced along the crates and cargo below.

He crouched low, the steel beam beneath him groaning quietly with each subtle shift of his weight. Eyes sharp, breath calm, he peered through his binoculars and surveyed the scene below like a hawk.

The Maronis.

They were next.

Once, under Sal Maroni, they were real contenders. Sal was brutal, intelligent, and ruthless—a man who could hold his own against the Falcones.

But after his death, the family had slipped. The current boss, Luigi "Big Lou" Maroni, was nothing like Sal. He was all puffed-up swagger and desperation, clawing at relevance in a world that had outgrown him.

Newer factions—meaner, hungrier, and more chaotic, were pushing in from every corner.

Tonight, the Maronis were moving a shipment—drugs, disguised as legitimate cargo. A boat was expected to arrive at the docks, where the goods would be quietly transferred into trucks and driven off to safehouses.

From above, Jason could already see the foot soldiers, armed and dressed like thugs with a bit of class, probably lower level thugs of the Maroni family.

They weredress in leather jackets, turtlenecks, button-downs with rolled sleeves, or polo shirts, paired with slacks or jeans. Most wore their fit over body armor, with gold chains, and enough firepower to start a street war.

They were alert, scattered in loose formations across the docks, each man with his weapon either slung over his shoulder or resting in hand. Their postures said they were ready. Too ready.

They weren't worried about the cops either. Jason could tell. Their confidence reeked of dirty money. Probably had half the GCPD in their pockets. Even with Gordon at the helm, there were still more corrupt badges than honest ones in this city.

Most didn't care about justice—only the steady flow of cash. For some, their greed was a pit that couldn't be filled.

Jason made a mental note. Some of those corrupt cops might need pruning. Then again, maybe not. Tools are still tools if you know how to use them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low hum. There it was, a small boat slipping in through the fog-covered waters. Jason followed it through his binoculars, watching as it bumped gently against the dock and a group of men quickly moved in to begin offloading crates.

They were marked as produce—vegetables, food supplies. Clever misdirection.

One of the men pried open a crate with a small knife, rummaging inside before retrieving a small bag. He dipped a pinky in, rubbed the powder under his nose, and inhaled sharply.

A twitch of pleasure flared across his face. He turned and gave the others a thumbs-up, a thin line of white dust coating his upper lip. He wiped it off with the back of his sleeve, grinning like a fool.

Jason rolled his eyes. Sloppy.

Time to begin.

"That's my cue," he muttered, slipping his binoculars away.

He pulled a black balaclava over his head, sealing his identity in shadow. The cool fabric clung to his jaw, his breath warming the interior.

A combat knife was strapped tight against his thigh. He flexed his fingers once before aiming his grapple gun and firing.

The line zipped, and within seconds, he landed silently atop a metal container.

Then the hunt began.

Moving like a phantom, Jason dropped into the shadows. Every movement was calculated—soft steps, controlled breathing. He weaved between steel beams, ducked behind stacked crates, and skirted the edge of flickering security lights.

He crouched beneath the first truck, pressing a small brick of C4 beneath the chassis. Then another inside a crate. Another just beneath the engine.

He repeated the process with precision, crawling under axles, hiding between tires, lying flat on roofs of trucks to avoid detection. Their eyes were sharp, sure—but they weren't trained for him. Not for this.

Once the charges were set, he stepped out into the open, quiet but deliberate.

"Boys," he called out, voice calm but loud enough to draw attention. "Didn't your mothers ever tell you not to do drugs? Gets you addicted. Worse—it gets you killed."

Weapons were drawn in an instant, the sound of safeties clicking off echoing through the night.

"Whoa, whoa. Easy now," he said, raising his hands, the faint smirk in his tone impossible to ignore. "We're just having a conversation. No need to jump to violence."

One of the men, a twitchy one with a tribal tattoo crawling up his neck, stepped forward. "Take off the mask. Hand over the sword."

Jason tilted his head. "What? So you can recognize me when I pay you a visit in the hospital later?"

"Boss, this guy's stalling," another growled, turning to the boss dressed in a grey suit with polished leather shoes.

"Kill this fucker and feed him to the fishes," the boss barked. A thug slipped behind Jason, pressing the cold muzzle of a pistol against the back of his skull—ready to pull the trigger.

He's been caught and could have his brains blown out in the next second.

- - -

Love my work? Join me on Patreon to unlock exclusive early chapters!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason exhaled slowly.

"Wait. Wait, wait," he said, voice trembling with false fear. "Just kidding."

He moved like a speedster. A twist. A wrench.

A sickening crack.

"AHHHHH!" The thug screamed as his elbow snapped in two.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he wailed, staggering back.

"Shoot him!" the boss roared.

Gunfire erupted, loud and chaotic. Jason pulled the injured thug in front of him, bullets thudding into the man's body like a drumbeat.

Jason raised the stolen pistol and fired—two shots, two kills. Both headshots. One more to the knee of a third thug, dropping him instantly.

The rest scrambled, ducking for cover.

Before the wounded man in Jason's arms went limp, Jason leaned close and whispered, "You can't call out to Christ right now. The only man here handing out judgment… is me."

The thug's eyes widened before he slumped forward, blood pooling at Jason's boots.

The others regrouped and fanned out, circling the area. They thought they were hunters. Little did they realize they were being hunted instead..

Jason pulled a small device from his belt and pressed a button. Sparks exploded. Lights popped and fizzled out one after another until the entire section of the docks was plunged into a suffocating darkness.

"Find him. Kill him," the leader snarled, furious and scared.

Jason melted into the shadows, his breath even, body low.

He crept up behind one thug crouching beside a truck, peering into the void.

"Boo," Jason whispered beside the man's ear.

The thug screamed and accidently fired—right into his own foot.

"A+ for effort," Jason murmured before disappearing again, a wraith in the darkness.

A second scream also came from a different position, but without the sound of gun fire.

The scream pulled attention.

The first location was checked by three men, while the other four rushed over, flashlights from phones flicking on. In the brief moments of brightness, they found their boss—tied to a crate, bleeding from the thigh with a sock jammed deep into his mouth, his eyes wild and panicked.

"Boss!"

They raced to him, fumbling with the knots.

Then they heard it.

Click. Zip.

Jason's voice drifted in from the darkness. "That's all, boys. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Panicked, they fired wildly toward the sound, bullets ricocheting off metal and cutting into empty air.

A groan echoed. "Did we get him?" someone asked, voice shaking.

A pause. Then—

"You wish."

Jason was on top of a container now, silhouetted by distant lights. Calm. Smirking beneath his mask.

"Oh, one last thing boys… The Falcones say hi."

The eyes of their boss widened upon hearing that statement.

"There he is!" a thug shouted, raising his weapon.

"Oops," Jason said, pressing a button on his detonator before tossing it near the trucks.

BOOM.

Explosions ripped through the docks. Trucks erupted into fireballs. Crates were sent flying like matchsticks. The shockwave sent men tumbling—one flew into the river with a splash. Others weren't so lucky.

- - -

The docks still smoldered beneath the velvet night sky, smoke bleeding into the clouds above Gotham's south pier.

The air at the Maroni docks still carried the bite of burnt rubber and diesel, thick and clinging to the lungs like a warning that hadn't finished echoing.

Steel twisted and groaned beneath the weight of the destruction left behind—three trucks, nothing but charred, skeletal remains of what once held over two million dollars' worth of narcotics, destroyed by an explosion that shook the nearby water like a detonation from a war movie.

Flames had licked the sides until the paint bubbled and peeled away like dead skin. The fourth rig had exploded outright, its twisted axle embedded halfway into a shipping container twenty feet off, now blackened and stinking of scorched chemicals.

And in the middle of it all stood Donnie Trillo, a former street rat turned dock supervisor, shaking like a man who'd seen the devil crawl out of the shadows and speak his name.

He did his best not to vomit as he lit another cigarette with bloodied fingers, hands that still trembled despite the warmth of the flame as blood ran down his leg.

His right knee buckled from the shrapnel bite, the makeshift tourniquet wrapped too tight. But he didn't care. Not about the pain. Not about the smell. All he could hear was that voice echoing in his skull.

'The Falcones say, hi.'

Cold. Unhurried. Like it didn't matter that men had died screaming just seconds before.


- - -

[Moments Later]

Across the river, Jason stood at the edge of a derelict rooftop overlooking the destruction, steam and smoke rising beneath him like the aftermath of a ritual cleansing. His balaclava still clung to his face, damp from sweat, his breath calm despite the chaos.

He watched as emergency crews began arriving in waves, floodlights cutting through the mist like artificial sunlight.

In his hand, he held the Maroni thug's pistol—emptied, wiped clean, and about to be dropped into the harbor.

"Let them tear each other apart," he muttered to himself.

The war to crumble and rebuild a faction of Gotham's underbelly had begun. And no one even knew who struck the first match.

With a flick of his wrist, the pistol vanished into the bay.

Then—movement.

A sudden whistle of air sliced through the quiet.

Instinct kicked in.

Jason spun with acute precision, his hand already drawing the combat knife strapped to his thigh. Metal shrieked against metal as the blade of a sword met the edge of his knife. Sparks flared and danced in the air like fireflies before fading into the night.

His opponent stepped back—young, masked, and clearly pissed. The kid's stance tightened as he switched his footing, the katana gleaming in the low light. With a sharp inhale, the boy lunged again, sword flashing with intent to draw blood.

Jason met the attack head-on, deflecting with a twist of his blade. The impact rang out like a bell between them.

"Oh. It's just the brat," Jason muttered under his breath, a tinge of amusement curled in his voice. He didn't need to guess who was behind the mask.

Across from him, the younger combatant's cape-draped shoulders tensed. His brows creased beneath the shadow of his hooded domino mask, a flicker of frustration dancing in his emerald eyes.

'Who is this peasant?' Damian seethed inwardly. 'And how the hell is he blocking my attacks so efficiently—especially the first one? I came at his blind spot.' His grip adjusted on the sword handle, fingers flexing slightly as he drew in a slow breath and re-centered his stance.

Jason tilted his head slightly, his voice dry and nonchalant as he did his best to mask his voice. "Isn't it way past your bedtime?"

"Not even close," came Damian's sharp retort, just as he flicked several smoke pellets to the ground.

The rooftops filled with an expanding plume of thick grey haze. The smoke curled and twisted in the cold air like writhing shadows. Without hesitation, Robin shot forward through the cloud, blade aiming for the very spot Jason had stood a heartbeat ago.

Steel hit nothing but air.

"What the—?" Damian's eyes widened behind the mask.

From within the smoke, a hard fist slammed into the side of his face. The blow landed with a brutal thud that knocked him off his feet.

He hit the rooftop hard, his body skidding across the coarse gravel. A grunt escaped his lips as he rolled with the momentum and sprang back to his feet in one fluid motion, boots scraping against the rooftop edge. His jaw clenched. That one stung.

With a scowl etched onto his face, Damian spat to the side and glared at the figure through the haze. "Better give back those pants. They're way too big for you to fill," he snapped, his voice dripping venom. The insult struck deeper than it appeared—aimed directly at the legacy of the Robin title.

Jason simply stood there, unmoved, like a tiger waiting to pounce. "And what would you know?" Damian growled, already shifting his weight, preparing to attack again.

But before he could move, Jason was suddenly there—right in front of him.

It was like he had blinked through space, erasing the distance between them in a breath. The wind seemed to ripple behind him from the sheer force of his movement. Damian's heart skipped as he instinctively braced himself.

'Let's see what Daddy's been teaching you these past few years,' Jason thought with a smirk beneath his mask, his grip tightening on the handle of his knife.

He went in low, feinting toward Damian's throat with the blade.

The boy brought his sword up, attempting to parry the strike, but Jason vanished from his line of sight.

It was a bait.

In a split second, Jason pivoted on the ball of his foot, slipping around Damian's guard and moving into his blind spot. The movement was so fast, so fluid, it barely made a sound. Just a whisper of motion and Jason was behind him.

Damian's eyes widened. His instincts screamed, but he was already too late.

A sharp crack echoed through the smoke as Jason brought the hilt of his knife down against the back of Robin's head—clean, efficient, brutal.

Damian staggered forward, knees buckling. His sword slipped from his grip with a muted clatter as his body slumped.

The rooftop felt like it was tilting under him. His vision doubled, blurred edges bleeding into the darkness. The last thing he saw through his rapidly dimming eyes were the heavy, black boots standing in front of him.

"Nighty night, kid," Jason muttered.

And then everything went dark.

- - -

[Later That Night Inside Big Lou's Lounge
West Gotham, Maroni-Controlled Territory]

The music was low and sultry—Italian jazz swirling from a vintage jukebox. The lounge itself was a velvet-lined cathedral of power and decadence. Blood-red curtains hung heavy over shuttered windows, muffling the outside world.

Oil portraits of long-dead Maroni patriarchs stared down from gilded frames, their eyes hollow with judgment or pride—it was hard to tell.

Crystal ashtrays glittered on every table, half-full with ashes and cigar stubs, the scent of aged tobacco mixing with expensive cologne and the faint chemical tang of gun oil.

Lou "Big Lou" Maroni sat like a king grown tired of his crown—sagging into a black leather couch, his bulk spilling over the armrests, legs spread in ownership of the space.

He was a wall of man, thick-necked, jowled, and wrapped in a custom-tailored silk shirt that clung to a belly seasoned by decades of gravy, violence, and unapologetic survival.

A half-burned cigar smoldered between his fingers, forgotten for the moment. Beside him, draped like a shawl he'd won in a card game, lounged a woman half his age—cocaine sheen in her eyes, curves quite visible through a glittering dress, high on powder and proximity to power.

Across from him stood Donnie.

If Lou was the emperor, Donnie looked like the last man dragged out of a burning coliseum. His suit was torn and crusted with blood and soot, shirt clinging to his frame with dried sweat, and with a bloodied tourniquet fastened tightly against his bleeding thigh.

His face was pale under the grime, jaw clenched tight, throat hoarse from smoke and screaming. He looked like someone who had just come from war and had left pieces of himself behind.

Lou's gaze was slow and deliberate, like a crocodile sizing up something it might kill or ignore.

"Start talkin'," Lou muttered finally, his voice low and thick with smoke. The words slipped from his mouth like Donnie was currently on trial, coiling in the air as he exhaled. "And don't gimme no stuttering crap. You were there."

Donnie blinked hard, trying to steady himself. The air was too warm, too still.

"I swear, boss—we checked everything. The manifest, the gate logs, all of it. Shipment was clean. No red flags, no leaks. It was quiet. Then… he just walked in."

Lou's brow lifted ever so slightly, a twitch of disbelief.

"He? Who the hell is 'he'?"

Donnie licked his cracked lips, voice scraping out like gravel. "I don't know. Never saw a face. He wore a balaclava—plain black, no logos, no flair. Just… walked in with his hands up as he announced his presence, like he was giving up. Calm. Relaxed. Like he belonged there."

Lou didn't speak. His silence said more than shouting ever could.

Donnie pressed on, words tumbling faster, like getting them out might spare him.

"The boys thought he was some junkie, some idiot strung out and wandering in. One of 'em put a piece to the back of his head. No warning. No patience."

Lou's eyes narrowed, barely a shift, but Donnie felt it like a noose tightening.

"So what happened?"

Donnie hesitated. His jaw worked for a second before the words came out, quieter now.

"He moved… fast. I mean ghost fast. Before the trigger pulled, he twisted the guy's wrist, snapped his elbow—clean break. Didn't even pause. Took the pistol mid-motion and shot the next two in the face. Headshots. One shot each. No spray, no panic. Just... bang. Bang."

He exhaled, shaky, haunted.

"The rest of us scrambled. Took cover. Thought maybe he wasn't alone, maybe part of a hit squad, but he didn't follow. Didn't speak. We heard a gun shot, then a scream. Before I knew it, I was disarmed, stabbed in my thigh and tied up so fast that I felt completely overpowered by him."

Lou leaned forward now, the couch groaning under his weight. Smoke curled around the crystal chandelier above like lazy spirits dancing in the dark.

Donnie's voice dropped, as if recalling the moment too loudly might summon it again.

"He looked right at me through the mask. Just stood there—so still it was unnatural. Then he said, clear as day: "'The Falcones say hi.'"

Donnie swallowed, lips trembling.

"Then he tossed something into the rig. A flare, or… I don't know what it was. But it hit the floor, and the whole thing lit up. Fast. Loud. The explosion banged all over the docks in an instant. I don't even remember crawling out. Just smoke and screaming."

The silence that followed was heavier than the music. Lou's jaw worked, clenched tight, the cigar now a dead stub in his grip.

He wasn't looking at Donnie anymore. He was staring past him—into old war memories, into streets soaked in blood, into a Gotham that never forgot betrayal.

"He leave anything behind? Accent? Build? Eyes?"

Donnie shook his head. "Could've been anyone. Maybe military. Ex-cop. But not street muscle. Too clean. Too calm. Moved like he'd done this a hundred times and never lost sleep over it."

Lou rose slowly from the couch, each step creaking the hardwood beneath him like it knew the weight of death approaching. He walked with a heavy calm, the kind that made men uneasy even before they saw the gun.

"Falcone," he muttered, almost to himself. "This reeks of their old man's playbook. Ghost tactics. No trails. Burn everything and let the ash do the talking."

He paced now, dragging heat through the room with every step. His eyes flicked toward the oil portraits as if seeking counsel from the dead.

"They think the mask gives 'em cover? That Sofia's gonna run the table with her daddy's tricks and I'm just gonna sit here smokin' cigars like a widow?"

His voice rose like thunder from a storm long overdue.

He turned to his consigliere leaning by the bar, a quiet, suited man with dead eyes and a razor in his pocket.

"Get word to the boys in The Narrows. Tonight. No waiting. No fuckin' debates. I want Miller Street lit up. Heroin depot, stash house—torch all of it. I want ashes where their stash used to be."

The consigliere gave a silent nod and gulped down the last of his drink before heading out, almost immediately.

Lou turned back to Donnie, his eyes bloodshot and hard now, like the fire hadn't quite left him.

"And you," he said, pointing with the dead cigar, "you're gonna deliver the message to Sofia."

Donnie's face drained of what little color remained. "Me?"

"Yeah. You. You looked him in the eye, didn't you? Crawled outta that fire? That makes you the messenger."

He stepped in close—close enough for Donnie to smell the bourbon on his breath, to feel the gravity of a man with nothing left to prove.

"And you're gonna tell her this; next time we ain't sendin' a message. We're sendin' fuckin' bodies."

Lou didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

The first move had worked. Gotham's underworld was rattled—paranoid, bleeding, and scrambling to make sense of a ghost in a red helmet. Now this.

But Jason knew this was just the beginning. Kicking the hornet's nest was easy. Holding it down while it swarmed? That was the real test.

And maybe it was madness—thinking one man could start a war and keep it from burning the whole city down. But he was willing to try anyway.

Because for Jason, this wasn't just about chaos. It wasn't just about control.

It was about Black Mask. It was about him. The Joker.

All of this—every explosion, every bullet, every carefully delivered corpse—was just the opening act.

The crime lords were pawns. The syndicates? Stepping stones.

What Jason wanted was bigger than fear. Bigger than revenge.

He wanted Gotham rebuilt on his terms.

Because in his eyes, crime couldn't be stopped. But it could be strangled, reshaped—its roots torn up, its foundations shattered, and rebuilt in a way that could be managed.

And if he had to become the villain to do it?

So be it.

- - -

Author's Note:

Keep an eye on the development of Jason's speed and physical strength—those details aren't just for flair. I've been dropping breadcrumbs of foreshadowing throughout the previous chapters, and the payoff is coming soon. You'll see the full picture take shape before long.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Robin. Wake up, Robin." The voice was distant, like it was coming from behind a wall of fog. Faint, muffled, but urgent. Damian tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were made of lead.

His head pounded, a sharp, rhythmic throb that felt like someone was driving nails into his skull. The world swam in a dark haze around him.

"Robin, talk to me. Are you okay?" The voice grew clearer, more distinct now. Batman. He sounded close, strained—not with fear, but with that deep concern he always tried to hide behind that cold, gravel-drenched tone.

There was no response. Just a low groan from Damian as he struggled to stay conscious, his limbs heavy and uncooperative.

Seeing the boy was still breathing, just dazed and clearly concussed, Batman didn't waste a second. He moved quickly but carefully, scooping Robin up and hoisting him over his shoulder. The weight wasn't a problem. He'd carried heavier burdens. Much heavier.

With a snap and hiss, his grapple line fired, latching onto the ledge above. The rooftops blurred past as they descended from the building in a single swift motion.

A city alive with chaos stretched out below—flashing red and blue lights in the distance, the faint crack of gunfire, the soft echo of sirens wailing into the night.

"Stay with me," Batman muttered, not because he thought Damian could hear him, but because saying it helped keep his own emotions from spiraling.

Damian let out another groan, weak but alive, as he was lowered into the passenger side of the Batmobile. His head lolled against the headrest, breathing shallow and uneven.

Batman climbed in behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life as the Batmobile surged forward through the rain-slick streets.

Drops of water streaked across the windshield, catching flashes of city lights as they sped toward Wayne Manor.

Earlier that evening, the sonar feed had picked up gunfire and multiple heat signatures down at the docks. Explosions soon followed, rippling through the city's underbelly like tremors before an earthquake. It was too organized to be random. Too clean for a gang scuffle. Someone was making moves.

Batman had already been gearing up when the alert came through, but Robin had been on patrol in the area. So Bruce did what he always did—he sent him in to recon, to observe. And as always, he gave one simple instruction; 'Do not engage until I arrive.'

But Damian being—well, Damian—ignored the directive.

He engaged.

And now here he was, unconscious and bruised, his cape crumpled and his armor scuffed from the beating he'd taken at the hands of whoever had been down there.

Batman's jaw tightened as the Batmobile tore down the side road leading back to the cave. His mind raced—not with panic, but with the burn of frustration.

Not just at Damian, but at himself. He should've known the kid wouldn't wait. He was trained by the League, wired for action, and burdened by a pride that rivaled his own at that age.
Batman glanced at the boy beside him—eyes fluttering, breath steadying. Damian would recover.

- - -

Gasp.

Damian jolted awake with a sudden intake of breath, his body instinctively trying to push itself off the bed. But the moment his head lifted, a searing pain tore through his skull like a lightning bolt cleaving through stone.

He winced sharply and let out a guttural groan, one hand flying up to clutch his head as he collapsed back onto the mattress with a thud.

His eyes clenched shut against the pounding ache, the sensation like hot iron pressing into his temples. It took a moment for his breathing to steady, for his heart to calm.

When he finally dared to open his eyes, they darted around the familiar space. The soft, warm lighting of his bedroom at Wayne Manor filtered through the tall windows.

The scent of cedarwood furniture and faint traces of old books settled in the air—he was home.

Damian was back in his own bed, surrounded by the quiet elegance of the manor. Relief mixed with confusion as the reality set in.

"Good to see you've woken up, Master Damian," came a familiar voice from the doorway, calm and composed.

Damian turned his head slightly, just enough to spot Alfred standing there, ever the poised sentinel. The butler's gaze was observant, his hands clasped behind his back as though he had been waiting patiently for this very moment.

"Get some rest," Alfred added with gentle firmness. "I'll notify Master Bruce and bring you some hot herbal tea to help soothe your nerves. It should also assist with that headache."

Without waiting for an argument, Alfred pivoted and quietly stepped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

"Thank you, Alfred," Damian murmured, voice barely audible, the words scraping out from between dry lips.

He moved slowly, groaning under his breath as he pushed himself up just enough to rest his back against the carved mahogany headboard. Every muscle felt sore, but his pride ached worse than his body.

The minutes passed in a quiet, steady lull. The ticking of the antique clock on the wall punctuated the silence, and the soft rustle of wind brushing the trees outside added a serene rhythm to the stillness. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, measured.

The door creaked open again.

"Damian."

Bruce's voice broke through the quiet like a low thunder roll. He entered the room without pause, his eyes fixed on his son, the lines on his face sharper than usual. Concern was evident in the furrow of his brow, though it was sheathed beneath that familiar stoic exterior.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice calm but tinged with tension.

"I'm fine," Damian responded almost too quickly. He attempted to swing his legs off the bed as if proving his point, but the sudden motion triggered a renewed burst of pain. He winced, his hand instinctively flying back to his head.

Bruce watched, unimpressed. "Your body says otherwise," he replied evenly. "Why don't you get some rest, and we can talk about what happened later."

"That bastard hit me on the head so hard it still feels like he tried to split my skull in half," Damian muttered, his tone edged with bitterness and lingering humiliation.

Bruce didn't walk away. Instead, he stepped closer, positioning himself at the side of the bed where he could observe his son more closely.

He saw past the front Damian was putting up—the clenched jaw, the simmering frustration behind his narrowed green eyes.

"You disobeyed orders," Bruce said at last, his voice hardening slightly. "I told you to observe. Not engage. You were supposed to wait for backup."

"I had him," Damian snapped, his pride flaring. "He didn't even know I was there. I was right behind him."

Bruce's expression tightened. "Then what happened?"

Damian's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as the memory surfaced, clear and vivid. "He blew up the Maronis' shipments. Took out their entire drug line with explosives. When I arrived at the scene and got to the source of the explosion, I spotted a very suspecious person at the rooftop.

I moved in to take him down quietly, from behind—so he wouldn't slip away. But just as I was about to incapacitate him… he blocked my blade. As if he had eyes in the back of his head."

Bruce's eyes darkened slightly. "What weapon did he use?"

"He carried a sword and a combat knife," Damian answered, shaking his head slightly. "But here's the thing—he never even drew the sword. Fought me with the knife alone. And still… I couldn't touch him."

His hands balled into fists, knuckles paling. There was a rare mix of emotions in his voice—frustration, confusion, and the sting of wounded pride.

Bruce exhaled slowly, processing the information with a calculating gaze. "How skilled was he?"

Damian hesitated. His pride resisted the truth, but he wasn't one to lie—especially not to Bruce.

"He was skilled. League-level skilled," he admitted at last, begrudgingly.

A long silence settled between them. Bruce's face remained unreadable, but behind the mask, his mind raced.

Someone with League-level training operating in Gotham without his knowledge? That was more than a red flag—it was a threat.

"What was his getup?" he finally asked.

Damian furrowed his brow, still recalling the encounter. "All-black tactical gear. Masked. Full balaclava. No visible skin. Moved with incredible speed."

Bruce's shoulders relaxed—slightly. "Then it wasn't him," he murmured, almost to himself, one hand stroking his jaw in thought.

"Him?" Damian asked, catching the strange tone. "You mean the one who wiped out that Bertinelli faction a few nights ago?"

"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "This doesn't match the description witnesses gave."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "So you think we've got another guy on our hands?"

"I don't know," Bruce said. His voice was quiet, the words weighted with uncertainty. "For now, focus on healing."

He placed a firm, brief hand on Damian's shoulder—a rare moment of physical reassurance—before turning and heading toward the door.

The moment the door shut behind Bruce, the room returned to silence. Damian stared at the ceiling, seething. His fists clenched once more, the ache in his head now rivaled by the storm brewing behind his eyes.

"Damn it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I'll get you back for this. Whoever you are."

A soft knock came just as the words left his lips.

"Your tea, Master Damian."

Alfred returned, this time with a silver tray holding a porcelain cup filled with steaming herbal tea. The scent of lemongrass and something faintly minty wafted toward him, comforting and familiar.

Damian took a long breath, forcing himself to calm. His heart slowed, and he reached out carefully, accepting the cup with a nod.

"Thank you, Alfred," he said with quiet sincerity.

Alfred simply nodded back, offering a knowing look. Then, without a word, he turned and left the boy to his thoughts.

Damian took a sip, letting the warmth soothe his throat and nerves alike. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, but it steadied something in him.

- - -

Bruce descended into the Batcave, his footsteps echoing faintly off the concrete steps as he made his way toward the central console.

The cave around him buzzed with a low hum of dormant tech—monitors dimly glowing, machinery whirring softly in standby, the occasional chirp from the cave's many nocturnal residents hidden in the upper shadows.

This was his domain, the heart of his war, and tonight, it pulsed with a faint tension he couldn't shake.

He moved with his usual demeanor, the weight of unanswered questions sitting heavily on his shoulders. Gotham had known a rare sliver of peace lately—tenuous, fragile, but peace nonetheless.

Now it was unraveling again. And whoever these new players were, they weren't petty thugs.

"So, how's the little devil doing?" Came a voice from across the cave—light, teasing, unmistakably familiar.

Bruce glanced up as Dick Grayson approached, casually spinning the chair near the main terminal with one hand before easing into it backward, arms resting along the backrest as he leaned forward with an easy grin.

"He'll be fine," Bruce replied, his tone even, though the concern lingered beneath the surface. "Just a little out of it. I'm keeping him in bed for now—concussion's still a possibility."
Dick tilted his head, smirking.

"Damn. Here I was hoping the knock on the head might straighten out that razor tongue of his. Maybe knock some humility in." Bruce didn't dignify that with a verbal response. He merely gave Dick a sideways look—dry, sharp, and completely unreadable.

Dick held up his hands in surrender. "Kidding. Kidding. I'm glad he's alright," he added, more sincerely this time, pushing off the chair and walking around to stand beside Bruce.

"This bit of intel is what brought me to town," Dick said as he stepped forward and inserted a flash drive into the console on the Batcomputer.

Dick leaned in slightly and pulled a smoothie from the corner of the desk, sipping casually through a straw as he studied the screen.

A video began to play on the central screen, grainy and flickering under the dim glow of the cave.

It showed a figure sprinting across a rooftop under the cover of night. Bruce leaned in, paused the footage, and zoomed in. The image clarified just enough to reveal a man wearing a red helmet.

"I got this shot from a snitch," Dick explained. "He says this guy was the one who got the Bertinellis."

"The Red Hood," Bruce muttered, his voice low and focused.

"Might be," Dick nodded. "He bears a resemblance to the original." Bruce's fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, pulling up additional data. A police report appeared on the screen showing a man in a red headpiece, handcuffed and under arrest.

Bold letters across the top of the report read;
Alias; The Red Hood.

"Several criminal groups have used this persona before," Bruce informed him, switching the feed to a montage of known offenders who had worn similar red masks throughout Gotham's history.

"One criminal in particular stands out," Dick noted, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "But he's currently locked up."

"Doesn't match his M.O. either," Bruce added. "There's been an uptick in weapons trafficking and black-market movement, but overall, crime's been down—until this guy staged that stunt with the Bertinellis. And now, someone's made a move on the Maronis."

"Someone's trying to upset the balance," Bruce said quietly.

With a few more keystrokes, he enlarged the image—highlighting a red headpiece and a figure in a tuxedo. A name scrolled across the screen in bold. Red Hood.

Dick's brow lifted. "Huh. Well, well. Joker—before he went all full-time psycho." He squinted at the image, the corner of his mouth twitching. Bruce gave a slow nod. "The witness reported a red helmet and referred to him by name. Red Hood."

Dick leaned against the desk, arms folded, watching the screen with growing intrigue. "Think someone's trying to revive the alias? Or maybe this guy has some kind of connection to the Joker?"

"I don't know yet," Bruce admitted, eyes scanning the report logs and incident files. "But it's a lead. And we follow leads." Dick took one last sip of his smoothie before tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin with casual precision. He folded his arms again, watching Bruce with a more serious gaze now.

"You think you're ready to face Joker again? After everything?"

It was a question layered with history. Too much history.

Bruce paused, just briefly, and the weight of the past flickered in his expression—Jason, blood, laughter, fire. Then he straightened, voice steady.
"That's why you're coming with me. To help keep me in check. Just in case."

Dick blinked, then let out a breath through his nose, nodding. "Guess we're due for a nostalgic, not-so-fun road trip to Arkham."

Bruce turned from the console, his focus now on the far side of the cave, where a sleek glass case held his suit—black and armored, gleaming under the blue-white light.

Dick watched for a moment, then pushed off the desk and headed toward the suit racks. His light humor was gone now, replaced by the professional calm of Nightwing. "I'll suit up."

- - -

Join me on patreon to read chapters ahead of my public release.

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Late that night, long after the city had settled into its usual uneasy silence, Batman and Nightwing made their way to Arkham Asylum—a fortress of concrete, iron, and madness tucked away on the outskirts of Gotham like a scar the city never quite healed from.

The storm that had threatened earlier had passed, but the sky remained thick with clouds, casting everything in a pale, ghostly gray.

A single security escort guided them through the interior, past guarded checkpoints, retinal scans, and bolted steel doors until they reached a sanctioned visitation chamber built for high-risk containment.

Inside the room, the Joker waited.

He sat slouched in a reinforced steel chair bolted to the floor. He was shackled from the neck down, a ridiculous tangle of chains that clinked with every minor movement he made.

Thick iron restraints clamped his wrists and elbows tightly to his sides, a belt looped through a steel brace at his waist, and heavy chains bound his legs all the way down to his ankles.

Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't take more than a half-step at a time. The room reeked faintly of disinfectant, rust, and whatever twisted perfume insanity wore.

He looked up as they entered—Batman in black, looming like a statue carved from shadow, and Nightwing a few steps behind, sharp-eyed and tense.

"Well, would you look at this," Joker purred, lips curling into a grin that didn't quite touch his sunken eyes. "You boys finally decided to come visit. I was beginning to think I was old news."

Batman and Nightwing didn't take a seat. They remained standing, unmoving, their presence imposing and silent. The sheer sight of Joker again was enough to dredge up things Bruce had buried—memories locked in the darkest corners of his mind.

Pain that time hadn't healed, just... dulled. Five years of trying to bury the weight of it. Five years of trying to atone through relentless work, one criminal at a time.

"You look good. Been working out?" Joker broke the silence with a crooked smirk. "You could probably use a little sun. Then again, who am I to talk?" He cackled at his own joke—an irritating, high-pitched laugh that echoed against the walls and made Nightwing's fists clench at his sides.

Batman didn't take the bait. He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small photo, tossing it onto the metal table between them.

"He's calling himself the Red Hood," Bruce said, voice low but sharp with barely controlled restraint. "What do you know?"

Joker leaned forward as far as the chains would let him, his cuffed hands rattling against the table. His expression shifted just slightly—not quite surprise, but recognition danced at the edge of his grin.

He picked up the photo with his chained fingers, turning it slightly. "Mmm. Tragic. So much leather. So little style. When I wore that number, it was classy. Elegant. More maître d', less... biker gang chic." He snorted. "Kids these days. No flair."

Nightwing's glare tightened, his voice coming in sharp. "If you're behind this in any way, we'll find out. And when we do—"

"Oh, bird-boy," Joker cut in, grinning wider. "You are so much less fun now. All grown up, walking tall in your big-boy pants. You used to smile. What happened to the pirouettes? The sass?"

He turned his gaze back to Batman and tilted his head slightly. "Still, better off than your last sidekick, huh?" His grin split wider. "What's tougher than losing the jokes? Being six feet under. Can't exactly laugh with a mouth full of worms."

That was it.

Batman snapped.

He moved in a flash, yanking Joker up off his chair with one arm and hurling him across the room like a ragdoll. The chains rattled furiously as Joker hit the far wall with a dull, solid thud, slamming against the reinforced door with enough force to shake the hinges.

Before he could fully slump, Batman was already on him—one hand wrapped tight around Joker's throat, lifting him off the ground.

Nightwing tensed, ready to intervene, but he held back, watching carefully. He knew Bruce. Knew how close he could get to that line without crossing it. Still, there was always that chance tonight might be… different.

Batman's grip tightened, his knuckles pale under the glove. His jaw was locked, teeth clenched. In that moment, he didn't see chains or padded walls—he saw Jason. Blood. Screams. Silence.

Joker gagged, gasping as his legs dangled a few inches off the floor. Yet somehow, he still smiled.

"Gonna do it this time?" he rasped, voice hoarse. "Or just put me in another body cast for six months?"

His eyes glinted, challenging. Daring him.

Batman growled under his breath, the tension in his arms reaching a breaking point. He saw red. But just before the edge, he pulled back.

With a grunt of frustration, he dropped Joker hard to the floor. The clown crumpled, coughing violently, wheezing through bruised ribs and a bruised ego. Still smiling.

"So disappointing," Joker whispered, voice thin.

Silence fell over the room as Bruce stepped back.

Joker rolled onto his side and let out a low chuckle. "Back to the matter at hand... this new hoodie. Do you really think I'd stir up that much trouble and not take credit for it? And not make sure you knew it was me?" He let out a long, mocking laugh, dragging it out until it became almost unbearable.

Batman said nothing.

He had heard enough.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. Nightwing hesitated for a second, casting one final glance at the madman on the floor before following.

The laughter trailed behind them as the heavy door slid closed, muffling Joker's voice until it was gone, swallowed up by the asylum's thick walls.

The walk back to the Batmobile was quiet.

"Well," Nightwing finally said as they stepped out into the cold night air, "at least we can scratch Joker off the suspect list."

Batman didn't reply. He stood beside the vehicle for a moment, eyes staring straight ahead, fists clenched at his sides.

"Are you okay?" Dick asked, his voice softer now, less joking.

"I'm good," Bruce replied flatly.

He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine with a low rumble. The cockpit lit up in a pale blue glow, the HUD silently waiting for input.

Dick climbed in beside him and fastened his seatbelt. "Alright."

The doors shut, and the Batmobile pulled out of the asylum's lot, slipping into the night. The ride back to Gotham was long and quiet, filled with the kind of silence that carried more weight than words ever could. Both men stared ahead, caught in their own thoughts, while Arkham slowly disappeared behind them like a bad dream.

But the weight in Bruce's chest hadn't disappeared. It was still there.

- - -
[Jason Todd's POV]

Blurred vision and a sluggish, foggy sense of awareness greeted Jason as his eyes cracked open. The slow, rhythmic spin of a ceiling fan above him came into view, circling clockwise in an almost hypnotic motion.

The blades sliced through the quiet air with a soft hum, stirring the room just enough to carry the faint smell of sweat, steel, and old leather.
"Where—?"

His voice rasped out, barely above a whisper. He turned his head and blinked a few times as the room slowly came into sharper focus.

The familiar dull gray walls, the faint flicker of sunlight bleeding through half-closed blinds, and the scratched-up dresser in the corner of the room confirmed what he already suspected.
"Oh... I'm home." He murmured, stretching out an arm and pressing his hand lazily over his mouth as a long yawn crawled out of him.
Then the realization struck like a jolt of electricity.

"Wait—I'm home!?"

He shot upright, almost slipping on the crumpled blanket tangled around his legs. "How the hell did I get home?"

His heart was racing now as flashes of memory surged through the haze in his mind. The docks. The Maroni shipment. The ambush. Robin. Their brief, intense exchange. The fight. The final blow.

He rubbed his temple with a palm, still trying to piece it all together. "Man... that must've been one hell of a knockout. Feels like someone unplugged half my brain and kicked the rest into a wall."

He huffed out a small laugh and scratched the back of his head. "Guess that nap came with a side of partial amnesia."

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, letting the moment breathe while his thoughts untangled themselves. Maybe he was just overthinking. Not the first time. Wouldn't be the last. The best way to shake it off, as always, was to sweat it out.

Jason stood, stretching his arms above his head, his back cracking with a satisfying pop. His room wasn't fancy—it had more of a bunker-meets-gym vibe.

Concrete walls, faint scuff marks on the floor, and one dim ceiling bulb that hummed low like it was on its last breath. In the corner, a modest collection of workout equipment stood ready.

A foldable bench with a barbell, mismatched dumbbells scattered nearby, and a few steel plates stacked neatly under a rugged shelf.
He moved over to the corner, unfolded the bench, and adjusted the weights.

No pre-workout. No fancy warm-ups. Just raw, familiar motion. He slipped under the bar and started pumping out steady reps. Controlled, efficient, with just enough strain to bite into his chest and shoulders.

Jason didn't care much for flashy training regimens anymore. He'd done it all—the League's brutal endurance gauntlets,

Batman's hellish drills, and even those weird Russian parkour phases back when he was with the League. These days, it was about balance—keeping the body sharp and the mind steady.
After the bench press, he grabbed a pair of heavy dumbbells and started curling.

Biceps flaring, veins tracing down his arms like road maps of tension. Sweat gathered quickly on his brow and collarbones, the familiar burn in his muscles slowly pushing out the residual fog in his mind.

Once the pump was solid, he dropped the dumbbells back onto the rack with a satisfying clank and snatched the white towel draped over the bar. He wiped down his face and neck, dragging the sweat off his skin as he caught his breath.

Next were pull-ups. He gripped the overhead bar mounted above his room's door and started repping out smooth, clean sets, the muscles in his back tightening with each lift.

The rhythm was comforting—just his body moving against gravity, no thoughts, no weight on his shoulders except his own.

Finished, he dropped to the floor, chest rising and falling steadily. The towel went around his neck as he trudged toward the mini fridge nestled against the wall beside his dresser. He opened it, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and took several deep gulps.

A grumble in his stomach reminded him of the next order of business.

"Time for some real fuel," he muttered.
He cracked open the fridge again and pulled out a couple of eggs, some half-wrapped bacon, and bread.

Within minutes, the small kitchenette at the corner of his place was alive with the sizzle of bacon and eggs popping on a skillet. The air filled with a rich aroma—salty, greasy, comforting.

He prepped his breakfast in quick, practiced motions. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast, plated with a glass of orange juice to the side.

He dropped into the worn-down chair by the counter, digging in without ceremony. As he chewed, he noticed the juice carton was nearly empty.
"Gotta hit the store soon," he mumbled, glancing toward the mini pantry. The shelves weren't bare, but they were getting close—just a couple canned items.

Once breakfast was done, he rinsed his plate and tossed it into the sink, then made his way to the shower. The warm spray pounded against his skin, rinsing away the sweat and tension like mud from old armor.

He stood there longer than usual, letting the steam fog up the mirror and clear the last remnants of sleep from his mind.
After drying off, he threw on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of dark joggers. Comfortable, clean, no fuss.

His eyes drifted to the wall across from his bed—a personal kind of trophy wall. Not filled with medals or masks, but with dartboards. Two of them. The first had a blown-up photo of Joker's sickeningly wide grin pinned to the center. The second had a printout of Batman's cowl, dead center.

Jason didn't hesitate. He grabbed two daggers from the table beside his bed and flicked them across the room. They landed with precise, angry thunks—one in the Joker's left eye, the other right between the Bat's glaring brows.
He stared at the blades for a beat, chest rising slow with each breath.

"Still got it," he muttered under his breath.
With nothing more to say, he turned and headed for the kitchen.

Still hungry.

He grabbed a cold beer from the fridge door and pulled out a few leftover slices of pizza from last night.

They went into the microwave with a beep and hum. His body relaxed a bit as he leaned back against the counter, sipping the beer and staring off at nothing in particular.

Lazy day, he told himself.

But in the back of his mind, he knew that peace wouldn't last.

Not in this city.

Not in his city.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

Sometimes, I just want to lie still and do absolutely nothing. Just be a couch potato for the day—no thinking, no planning, no diving headfirst into the constant chaos that shadows me.

Just a quiet moment. A breath. No goals. No vengeance. No twisted sense of purpose anchoring my soul to the war outside.

But my mind won't shut up.

My thoughts don't rest, and neither does that burning hunger inside me—that hunger for justice, for payback, for accomplishment.

The kind that keeps me pacing like a wolf in a cage even when I'm sprawled on the couch, chewing through a greasy slice of pizza.

Which, ironically, is from a place owned by the Falcones.

Yeah. Their mozzarella game is dangerously good. I've gotta give it to them—they know crime and they know dough.

But even as I stuff my face with the last slice, there's this gnawing urge in my stomach that isn't about hunger. It's that same twitchy kind of craving I get right before a storm rolls in—the kind of hunger that no food can settle.

The Maronis are bound to strike back soon. They've been licking their wounds, plotting, pulling bodies out of warehouses. It's only a matter of time before they retaliate.

And when they do, the Falcones will answer with twice the violence.

Then it'll spiral. It won't just be some turf war with whispered threats and back-alley shootouts. It'll be a citywide bloodbath—one even I might not be able to control. An all-out war with bullets flying and bodies hitting pavement in every corner of Gotham.

I'd have to ensure things do not turn our like that.

The idea of fanning the flames between the two families to keep Bruce a bit preoccupied until I have made my move to directly poke at Black Mask by interfering with his territory and street business, just makes me a bit twitchy to do something and not leisurly lay around like this.

Now I'm craving pasta for tonight's dinner. I laugh to myself as I lean back on the couch.
Maybe later I'll hit up that Italian joint on the east side—the one that still has the blacked-out windows and that overly friendly waitress with the fake smile.

I overheard a guy talking about how their seafood linguine could bring tears to your eyes. Sounds promising.

Although, it's owned by the Bertinellis. So... that's a gamble.

Hopefully they're still standing by the time I show up. If not—well, I'll eat somewhere else.

Sofia Falcone won't sit still for long. She's dangerous in a way most of the suits in this town aren't—unpredictable, raw, and quietly psychotic.

All it takes is one wrong headline and she'll blow.

And Big Lou? That street thug has the subtlety of a hand grenade in a church. He's going to declare war soon, waving his flag like a drunk with a flamethrower, and every idiot beneath him will start spilling lead into the alleys just to prove they're loyal.

All that chaos? It'll catch Black Mask's attention. And that's the initial goal. He's paranoid, twitchy, always watching his back. I need to feed that paranoia—get it nice and fat—before I slice it wide open.

But then there's him.

Joker.

Goddamn clown.

Even when I had no memory, buried under League training and white noise, his face still haunted me. I'd see him in dreams I couldn't explain, feel his laugh crawling under my skin during silence, like an itch I couldn't scratch.

He was a shadow in my sleep. A monster in the hallway of my subconscious. Like my body remembered the trauma even when my mind was gone.

The League taught us discipline, taught us to master pain, to bury emotions. But he was a scar the training couldn't erase.

Joker. Batman's little pet lunatic.

The man who beat me half to death, left me to die alone in that rotting building—and still got to keep drawing breath in his lungs.
Because Bruce let him live.

That's the part I can't get past. Not the crowbar. Not the laughter. Not the explosion.
The choice.

He chose to let that psycho breathe.
He let the man who murdered his son keep living even if he was currently detailed at Arkham.

And not just living—but laughing, probably scheming his next escape from that yard of lunatics. Rationally, I know I don't hate Bruce. Not really. But goddamn it, the betrayal sits so deep in me that sometimes I can't tell if it's rage or grief that boils over.

It's irrational, maybe. I know that. But the pain is louder than reason.

And if the roles were reversed—if Bruce had been the one lying broken on that floor while I lived—you better believe I wouldn't have left a single goddamn piece of that clown intact. Joker would've begged me to end it. And I wouldn't have been merciful.

But Bruce? Bruce has Damian now.

His biological son.

Guess I was the warm-up act.

Maybe I don't matter to him anymore. Maybe I never really did.

That used to hurt. Now it's fuel.

So I'll remind him. I'll remind all of them. That I was never just another sidekick. That I didn't come back to be welcomed—I came back to be reckoned with.

The city's spiraling.

And soon enough, I'll say hello to the Bat himself.

- - -

Sofia Falcone's office reeked of cigars, old money, and fear—but it wasn't her fear.

She stood by the floor-length window of her private suite atop the Gatto Nero Casino, swirling a glass of red wine without drinking it. Below, Gotham's lights flickered like nervous pulses, uncertain of which news would rise next.

Behind her, a bruised and shaking Donnie Trillo sat on a leather couch, dabbing sweat from his brow with a napkin he'd been clutching like a rosary. Across from him, Sofia's consigliere leaned against a liquor cabinet, silent and sharp-eyed.

Sofia didn't look at Donnie as she spoke.

"Say it again."

Donnie flinched. "He—he was wearin' a mask. Balaclava. Tight. Couldn't see his face, nothing. Took out my crew in seconds. Said, 'The Falcones say hi', and then the docks lit up like it was the Fourth of July."

Sofia's fingers tightened on the glass. A single drop of wine spilled onto the floor.

"And you're sure," she said coolly, "he said Falcone."

Donnie nodded like a man trying to keep his head on his shoulders. "Crystal. He wanted us to hear it."

She finally turned to face him, eyes as sharp and dark as obsidian.

"Then let them hear something back."

- - -

[Later That Night – Red Hook Industrial District, Maroni-Controlled Meth Lab]

They came in through the skylights—silent and masked. Sofia's crew wore matte-black tactical gear. No emblems. No colors. No names. Just death.

The Maroni guards didn't stand a chance. One by one, they were taken out with suppressed rounds and blades, efficiently.

Inside, the meth lab burned.

Tubs of precursors melted. Gas lines burst into flames. A man screamed as his leg caught fire and another died coughing on cyanide smoke.

The final touch? A body nailed to the brick wall with rebar through his wrists, a leather bag over his head, and a handwritten sign;

"The Falcones don't play hide and seek."

By dawn, everyone in the underworld had seen the pictures.

- - -

[Bruce Wayne's POV]

The Batcave was dimly lit, as always, its only real illumination spilling from the massive monitor wall that flickered with cascading streams of data.

Code, surveillance footage, facial recognition scans, and encrypted communications flowed across the screens like an endless tide of digital noise.

In front of them sat Bruce Wayne—no longer the billionaire playboy, just the Batman, in full armor except for the cowl, which rested beside him on the desk.

His jaw was clenched tight, expression unreadable but heavy. The subtle furrow of his brow, the tension in his posture—he wasn't just scanning data, he was hunting through it.

"We need to head out soon,"

Damian announced as he entered the cave, his footsteps light but sharp on the cold floor.

Bruce didn't look up. "I'm almost done here," he replied, fingers gliding across the keyboard.

Damian walked closer, his cape swaying gently as he approached the desk and leaned a hip against its edge. His sharp green eyes were locked on his father, observing—not the screens, but him.

"What's wrong?" he asked bluntly.

Bruce didn't answer immediately. His silence lingered just a second too long. "What do you mean?" he finally said, not taking his eyes off the monitors.

"You've got that look again," Damian said.

"The one you wear when something's bothering you but you won't talk about it."

Bruce exhaled quietly, almost imperceptibly. "This is how I always look," he muttered, but even he knew that wasn't convincing.

Damian wasn't buying it either. His stare remained fixed, waiting.

After a moment, Bruce relented, rubbing the side of his temple with his gloved fingers as he sighed. "Something is wrong." Damian tilted his head slightly, prompting him to continue.

"There's a shift happening in Gotham… and not the usual kind." Bruce's voice dropped lower, thoughtful. "The balance of power between the crime families is unraveling. What used to be careful politics and unspoken rules is dissolving into chaos."

"Chaos like what?" Damian asked, narrowing his eyes.

Bruce finally looked up, catching his son's gaze. "Gotham is starting to feel like it did before... during the old days. Back when the streets were run with blood and fear. When territory was carved out with bullets and bones."

Damian scoffed quietly, straightening up. "I'm no stranger to bloody feuds, Father."

Bruce held his gaze for a moment, saying nothing. He didn't need to. He remembered all too well what Damian had been through—even as a child raised by the League, he had survived horrors that most grown men wouldn't recover from.

He turned his attention back to the monitors, allowing a rare flicker of solemnity to pass across his face.

Damian folded his arms, waiting.

"Got anything yet?" he asked, clearly impatient.

"Not yet," Bruce replied, his voice slightly distant as his eyes swept across new incoming intel. It wasn't entirely a lie—but it wasn't the full truth either.

Damian saw right through it, he has observed his dad for almost four years now and realized how annoyingly similar they both were. So he probs at actions he might make even if it were just a mere hunch, being that he still couldn't predict or read whatever it was his dad was truely thinking.

"But…?"

Bruce hesitated, then pulled up a new set of images on the main screen. One in particular caught Damian's eye. A blurred but unmistakable figure in red.

"There's a pattern forming," Bruce explained. "The crime bosses are acting out of character. Rash. Aggressive. It's not just fear—it's fear of something specific."

He tapped a key, zooming in on a frame that showed a shadowy figure in a red helmet, caught mid-stride on a grainy street cam.
"It started with the attack on the Bertinellis," he continued.

"Ever since this...Red Hood appeared, the dominoes have been falling in rapid succession."

Damian leaned forward slightly. "Do you think he's the cause?"

Bruce didn't answer right away. Instead, he stared at the screen with narrowed eyes, jaw tightening again.

"I think he's the match that lit the powder keg." Damian opened his mouth to ask another question, but Bruce cut him off with a firm, commanding tone.

"Suit up. We're heading out."

Damian frowned slightly, annoyed at being cut off but smart enough not to argue. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the changing alcove.

Bruce remained seated a moment longer, staring at the image of Red Hood. The shadows wrapped around the crimson helmet like a curse from the past, and despite the lack of clarity in the photo, Bruce felt something twist deep in his gut.

Something cold.

Something familiar.

He couldn't say it aloud. Not yet. But deep down, a part of him feared he already knew who it was behind the mask. But didn't have the faintest idea, who.

As he stood and slid the cowl back over his head, his expression returned to that hard, controlled mask of silent determination.
The winds in Gotham were shifting. Fast. And they were carrying the scent of blood.

The war was coming.

And Red Hood still remains an unknown variable.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The war between the Bertinellis and the Falcones had turned Gotham into a slow-cooking pressure bomb, blood in the streets, chaos at every corner. Two cousin crime families ripping each other apart, and the city? Caught in the middle.

Ambushes, back-alley executions, safehouses torched to ash—rumors flew like bullets. The GCPD and Batman were stretched so thin they might as well have been ghosts.

One minute they were responding to a warehouse shootout, next they were bagging bodies in alleyways. Whole neighborhoods turned into battlegrounds the moment anyone from either family crossed paths.

And while the city scrambled to clean up the mess, Red Hood made his move.

Quietly.

Late that night, on Gotham's east side, an abandoned factory that hadn't seen industrial work since the eighties became the scene of something... different.

The place was a graveyard of rust and dust, windows shattered, metal stairs groaning, and old pipes dripping like they were crying from years of rot. The walls were covered in layers of graffiti, old bloodstains, and grime that time forgot.

It was neutral ground. Which meant it was perfect.

A folding table sat dead-center under the flicker of a buzzing industrial light, the kind that hummed like it hated stillness. Cigarette ash, burn marks, and a couple of bullet holes decorated its surface. Around it sat six men and one woman—dealers, traffickers, mid-tier street bosses. All of them hardened by the game. And all of them looking around like someone just pulled a gun without showing it.

"What the—You didn't set this up?" barked the guy in a pinstripe suit, hair slicked back but voice cracking with tension.

"So whose party is this?"

They glanced around at each other. Shifty eyes. Quick side glances. No one spoke.

The truth? They'd all been invited the same way—notes slipped under doors, into dashboards, onto office desks. No names. No logos. Just a time and place. Gotham style.

"Figured it was you east-side jokers," someone muttered, lacing sarcasm through his words. "Word is, you already bent over for Black Mask."

"Bent over?" another snapped, leaning in. You could hear the grief under his anger. "Black Mask hit five of my crew in a month. My best guys. If I didn't give in to him, there wouldn't be anyone left to bury."

"So you set this up?"

"No. I thought it was Raymond."

"Nah, it wasn't me." Raymond grunted, already annoyed. "I am not in the mood for some fucking game."

Trevor pushed back from his seat. "Screw this. If y'all wanna wait around to be gunned down, that's on you."

"Sit down, Trevor."

A voice came from the dark corners of the metal stairs above them. Calm, steady. Not loud, but loud enough.

Everyone froze.

Heads turned toward the catwalk above them.

Someone whispered, "It's him."

"Batman?"

"We didn't do anything—!"

"Oh, come on," the voice answered, low and dry. "We all know that's a lie."

But this voice... it wasn't gravel. Wasn't Batman's righteous growl. This one was colder. More real. Less justice, more…primal.

Then he stepped out of the shadows.

Combat armor, helmet shining just enough to catch the flicker of the light. That red bat symbol stretched across his chest. An AK slung over his shoulder, barrel aimed low but carried with confidence that said; 'I don't have to raise it for it to be a problem.'

"Who the hell are you?" one of them barked, getting halfway to his feet.

Another voice in the back yelled, "Smoke him!"

Jason didn't wait.

He opened fire.

The room blew apart in chaos—bullets ripping through old concrete, sparks flying from shattered pipes, hot lead turning rust into shrapnel. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder, oil, and panic.

Screams. Scrambling bodies. Men diving behind crates, flipping over the table, pressing flat to filthy floors. One guy yelled. Another cried out. No one fired back.

And then—silence.

The worst kind. The kind that hits right after you realize you've lived through something you weren't supposed to.

Bootsteps echoed. Slow. Heavy.

Jason walked forward, rifle lowered but still ready. That red bat symbol gleamed through the settling smoke.

"I said... sit down."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a request. It was a promise. And they knew it.

Trevor, twitching with sweat and adrenaline, didn't sit. "You got a death wish? There's easier ways to go than this. Try jumping in the Narrows."

Jason's helmet tilted in his direction. "Yeah... like yelling at the guy holding a fucking AK-47."

That shut Trevor up.

Jason gave it a second. Let it sink in. Then laid it out plain.

"Listen close, you scumbags. As of tonight, you work for me."

A few of them shifted. Fidgeted. Sucked their teeth like they were gonna object.

Jason didn't care.

"You seven are the most successful dealers in Gotham. You've got reach, product, protection, and somehow haven't been killed yet. So here's the deal. Call it charity."

He stepped closer, slow and confident.

"You keep doing your thing—run your corners, sell your weight, whatever. But you kick up forty percent to me. That's better than Black Mask's deal, and unlike him, I'm giving something back.

Protection. From him and from Batman."

Still, they stayed quiet. The only sound was a broken pipe dripping somewhere in the dark.

Jason's tone shifted slightly.

"But you stay the fuck away from kids. No selling near schools. No dealing to minors. You cross that line once—and I'll jam a hot rod so far up your ass your lungs'll catch fire. No warnings."

One of the guys smirked, trying to play tough. "Real generous offer... but why the hell should we listen to you?"

Jason didn't argue.

He just tossed a duffel bag onto the table. Heavy thud. Wet thud.

Everyone flinched.

Nobody moved to open it.

Finally, one brave soul reached out with shaking fingers and unzipped the bag.

The smell hit first. Thick, raw, and wrong.

Then came the visual.

Heads. Severed. Hacked. Faces frozen in pure horror. Blood still fresh in the lining.

Recognizable faces. Guys who didn't show up to work. Trusted lieutenants. Enforcers. Gone.

"Oh... shit."

One of them collapsed, vomiting on the floor.

Jason didn't flinch.

"That took me two hours," he said casually. "You wanna see what I can do with a whole night?"

Still no one spoke.

He took another step forward, boots crunching old debris underfoot.

"This ain't a meeting. It's a takeover. I'm not here to bargain."

He raised the rifle again and popped off a few rounds into the floor. The shots echoed like thunder, sending wood and concrete flying. The table splintered. Everyone dove like it was life or death—which, honestly, it kinda was.

Then—silence.

They looked up.

He was gone.

Vanished like smoke. Like he'd never been there at all.

Except... the bullet holes were real. The heads were real. The silence he left behind? That was real too.

For a few beats, no one said anything. Just breathing and disbelief.

Then Raymond, shaking off the dust, broke the tension.

"Forty percent sounds good to me."


- - -

[Roman Sionis' POV]

Roman Sionis—Black Mask.

He didn't claw his way to the top of Gotham's underworld by playing nice. He built his empire the old-fashioned way, with broken bones, slashed throats, and enough backstabbing to make Judas blush.

Guns, drugs, bodies—he moved it all, flowing like blood through the arteries of the city's criminal heart. He didn't just run a syndicate. He was the syndicate.

The king of Gotham's rot.

Paranoid by nature, vicious by design, Roman ruled with a fist full of rings and a sharp mind. His pride? Nuclear. His greed? Terminal.

In his head, he wasn't just another kingpin. He was Gotham. Untouchable. Unchallenged. Inevitable.

He was up in his penthouse office, high above the city, sitting in a room soaked in wealth and ego. Thick red velvet carpet underfoot. Gold-plated statues standing guard in every corner.

A sleek black desk positioned perfectly in front of a panoramic window that looked out over Gotham's bruised skyline.

Everything was arranged just so. Even the couch he never sat on. The room screamed money and power. Just like he liked it.

Behind that obsidian skull mask, Roman was fuming.

"WHAT!?" he bellowed, slamming both palms down on the desk. The sharp crack echoed through the room. His leather chair screeched back as he shot to his feet, fury dripping off him like sweat.

Across from him stood his personal secretary—cool, composed, dressed in a black skirt suit that screamed professionalism and danger. Mid-to-late twenties. Dark-skinned. Sharp eyes behind those glasses. The kind of woman who had your eulogy typed up before your appointment started.

She worked for a monster. But she worked well.

Roman's mask turned to her, voice a slow growl. "Say that again. Slower."

She adjusted her glasses, not flinching. "Several street-level pushers in our territory are refusing to pay protection."

Roman tilted his head. "Refusing? Refusing? They're refusing me?"

"They say they've got a better deal now. Someone new's offering lower cuts, more muscle… and results."

He stared at her, not blinking.

She kept going, like it was just another report. "They said he dropped a duffel bag on the table during negotiations. Inside were the heads of their own lieutenants."

Roman let out a harsh breath. "That's gotta be exaggerated bullshit. Some theater to scare the next round of idiots into line."

He exhaled through his teeth, pacing now, trying to put a lid on the fire building in his chest. Then he stilled, waved for a drink. She poured it. Smooth, practiced.

"Does this dipshit have a name?"

She filled the glass and handed it over. "They call him Red Hood."

Roman took a slow sip. The burn did nothing to help.

"That little street rat's got some real balls. Dipping his filthy hand into my bowl and helping himself to a full fucking meal." His tone dropped, more snarl than words. "Balls I'll rip off and FedEx to his goddamn mother."

He was winding up for more when someone knocked on the door.

Didn't wait for permission. Just opened and walked in. Four of his security goons—top of the line. Hardened. Loyal. And, right now, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.

Roman glared. "Tell me you've already dealt with this clown before I lose my shit all over this desk."

The biggest of them stepped forward. Scar over his eyebrow. Voice like gravel.

"We tried, boss. But he's... not easy to pin down. Dealers are switching sides. The ones that don't? They're either in the ICU or zipped up in body bags."

Roman sat back down slow, his mask hiding the twitch in his jaw.

"He's one guy," he said, voice flat. "I've got an army. An army of killers, thugs, assassins, cage fighters. How is one guy tearing holes in my empire?"

Another one spoke, more hesitant. "He's wearing a red bat symbol, sir. And… the boys say he fights like a demon."

"Terrific," Roman muttered. "Halloween came early."

He sipped again, barely tasting it.

"You think it's Batman?" he asked. "Some new sidekick? Another psycho in a cape?"

"No, sir," the guard said quickly. "He doesn't hold back. Doesn't do the whole no-kill thing. He puts people down hard."

Then the last guy at the end of the line piped up—quieter than the rest.

"He beat my crew with a crowbar, sir. After we torched that club in East End. Said the neighborhood was under his protection, and that we were about to learn what that meant."

Roman turned his mask toward the guy, accompanied by a sharp silence.

"You think I give a shit about your sob story?" he snapped.

The glass was out of his hand before anyone could blink—whipped straight at the guy's head. He barely ducked. It smashed against a golden statue, raining crystal down across the floor.

"You think I care about what he said to you?" Roman barked. "You think I give a rat's ass about some thug in a red mask giving speeches before he breaks your legs?!"

He was up again, pacing to the window, looking down at the lights of Gotham, the city breathing like a beast below.

Something felt off. A shift. The air felt different—like blood was already in the wind.

"I don't like this," he muttered. "Feels like trouble already moved in and we left the fucking door open."

He turned back to the room, voice low but fierce.

"The Maronis and Falcones are at each other's throats. That war spills into my turf, and I've got problems. Now my dealers are giving this Red Hood clown my cut? Calling him more terrifying than the Bat?"

He took a step forward, barking.

"Kill him. Hang him off a bridge. Cut off his head and drop it on my desk if you have to. But handle it. Because if he keeps carving pieces off my empire, I swear to God—I'll bury every one of you and find someone who can do the job without shitting their pants."

He let the silence settle like chalk dust.

Then he dropped his voice. Cold. Dangerous.

"Now get the fuck out of my office."

The four of them didn't wait to be told twice. They slipped out, calm on the surface, but practically sprinting down the hall once the door shut.

Roman turned back to the window.

Fists clenched. Mind racing.

Who the hell was this Red Hood?

And how the fuck was he getting away with this?

- - -

Want early access to upcoming chapters? Support me on Patreon to read ahead!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[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.

- - -

Love my work? Join me on Patreon to unlock exclusive early chapters!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[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.

- - -

Love my work? Join me on Patreon to unlock exclusive early chapters!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[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.

- - -

Love my work? Join me on Patreon to read chapters ahead!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[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.

- - -

More chapters? Support me on Patreon to read chapters ahead of my public release.

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She finally broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

A quiet moment passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason smirked lightly, but didn't move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll be on my way then."

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

Because maybe he did.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]


Li Xinyue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she watches his own people too.

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

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

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

And when the sun comes up?

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

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

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

She's damn near untouchable.

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

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

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

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

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

Guess I'll have to wait and see.

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

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

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

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

But if Bruce starts putting two and two together…

Whatever. I'll handle it.

It's due time he learns my identity.

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

Time to get my head in the game.

- - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick picked up on it instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was on the man behind the mask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You thinking he laid a trap?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And find out exactly why.

- - -

Wishing for more chapters? Then please, do well to support me on Patreon to gain early access to exclusive chapters ahead of my public release.

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

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

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

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

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

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

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

The side door slid open with a smooth hiss.

Only one man stepped out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The two guards hesitated, exchanging looks.

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

They eventually lowered their hands and turned toward the hold.

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

Minutes passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now airborne.

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

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

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

But Red Hood had already anticipated that move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jason saw him coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No sign of him.

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

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

They dove for cover.

BOOM!

Debris rained down as fire bloomed across the shop.

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

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

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

There he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Batman said nothing, just glared.

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

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

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

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

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

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

"I—"

"Enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the silence didn't last long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was the heir of the Demon. He had been molded from birth into a weapon sharper than any blade in the League's armory. He had fought in snow-covered wastelands, survived blood trials in deep mountain caverns, and had taken life before he had lost his first baby tooth. He was danger.

And here Dick was—laughing.

Damian's face twisted with rage. He swung for Dick's torso, aiming to end the dance. But Dick dived low, rolled across the floor, and Damian wasted no time. He reacted immediately, leaping after him and bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead arc, fully intending to split Dick's head open if he didn't move.

But Dick moved. His escrima sticks came up in a flash and caught the descending blade with a loud crack, halting it just inches above his skull.

"Well, I was trained by Bruce Wayne," Dick said with an easy grin as he slowly pushed upward from his crouch. "And every time your grandpa squared up with him, Bruce handed Ra's al Ghul's five-hundred-year-old ass back to him on a silver platter."

The smugness in his voice only pushed Damian deeper into fury.

"Just like I'm handing yours to you now."

"You—!" Damian snarled.

His foot lashed out and caught Dick in the ribs. The strike forced a grunt out of him and made him stumble sideways.

"We'll see about that," Damian growled.

He broke their locked weapons and moved in, his elbow rising swiftly in an uppercut. Dick bent backward in a limbo-like motion, barely dodging. He dropped to his hands and executed a sweeping leg kick, catching Damian's ankles and knocking him to the floor.

A sly smirk crept across Dick's lips. "Careful. You've got school in the morning. Let's not get too bruised up or Alfred's going to have a hard time doing makeup."

Damian, already back on his feet, growled and raised his sword again. "Hold," Dick said, stepping off toward the combat platform in the cave—a circular ring raised above the cave floor, used for more focused training.

Damian followed, his face a picture of annoyance, eyes narrowed with focused irritation.

They circled each other in the arena like wild cats. Damian moved first, sword arcing through the air. Dick parried with his escrima sticks, blow for blow, matching his speed. A swipe aimed for Damian's head missed by inches as the boy bent backward. Dick followed with a sweep for his feet, but Damian flipped backward out of reach.

Dick went airborne, descending with an overhead strike, but Damian blocked with his blade, sparks flying from the impact. Using his compact frame to his advantage, Damian launched forward, foot aimed directly at Dick's throat.

Dick raised both sticks in a cross, catching the kick and deflecting it. Damian sprang off the blocked kick and aimed a spinning side-kick at Dick's face.

Caught off guard by the speed, Dick ducked, twisted, and shot out a kick from his crouched position. It was aimed for the solar plexus, fast and brutal. Damian blocked with the flat of his sword, bracing himself—but the sheer force knocked him back.

Dick advanced, arrogant strides telegraphing every bit of the confidence he had.

"You're sloppy," he said, twirling his sticks like a showman.

"No, I'm uninterested," Damian snapped.

'This fucking brat,' Dick thought with a tight jaw.

"Well, better get your head in the game."

Dick came at him again, strikes flowing with fluidity, relentless. Damian blocked and parried, but the pressure kept building. Soon, he was cornered at the edge of the platform. With a grunt, he leapt off. Dick followed without hesitation, chasing him across the Batcave.

Their duel snaked around the cave's massive stair rail system. Damian moved with the likes of an assasin, agile and unpredictable, his sword dancing with precision. Dick matched him beat-for-beat, running the rail like it was a balance beam.

Back on level ground, they clashed again. Dick swung a kick into Damian's side, but the boy caught it mid-air and retaliated with a strike to his other leg. Dick hit the ground with a hard grunt, only to be slammed into the cold, reinforced steel floor as Damian pressed his advantage.

Grabbing Damian by the collar, Dick pulled him close with a kick to the chest and tossed him overhead. Damian rolled on landing and sprang up like a cat.

But Dick was faster. He lunged with a direct blow, missed, but with that momentum he transitioned into a cat wheel and grabbed Damian's cape. With a quick backflip, he yanked the cape forward and covered his face.

This led to Dick catching Damian in a chokehold and slamming his face into the nearby glass casing—the one holding Dick's original Robin suit.

'Fuck avoiding his face, nothing some ice pack and a lot of makeup can't cover.' The thoughts that marinated in the darkest parts of Dick's mind.

With that, punch after punch landed into the fabric-covered face. Then he twisted Damian's arm behind him, pressing his face harder against the glass.

"You really are just a ball of ego, aren't you?" Damian shot at him, pissed and irritated as fuck. "The pure and perfect Dick Grayson. The first Robin."

Dick pressed harder, forcing Damian to look directly at the red, green, and yellow costume behind the glass.

It wasn't just a beatdown anymore—it was a message: 'You'll never measure up.'

He leaned in, voice low. "Based on everything I'm seeing… I'm the only real Robin." Dick said.

That one hit Damian where it hurt.

"You're just some lost little orphan he took pity on," Damian hissed, voice sharp with venom.

Dick blinked. That landed deeper than it should've. His grip loosened.

"But I'm blood."

In one fluid motion, Damian stepped on the glass casing, kicked off it, and flipped over Dick's head. He spun in the air, struck Dick's hip mid-rotation, and came down swinging.

Dick blocked, but Damian landed a punishing blow—right to his groin.

"ARGH—!"

Dick staggered, eyes wide, pain blooming from his gut as Damian followed up with a brutal combo. Left. Right. Knee to the chin.

Then—bam—a tiger claw technique, straight under the chin, snapped Dick's head back and sent him flying over the rail, crashing down onto the floor below.

"I'm his son," Damian declared, chest heaving as he turned and walked away, leaving his blade behind.

Dick lay groaning, one hand on his jaw, the other clutching his ribs. "You certainly are," he muttered under his breath.

As Damian passed by the stairwell, Alfred appeared, holding a cold drink and a cloth napkin. He gave a slow clap. "Excellent form, Master Damian. Though I dare say, a bit excessive."

Dick sat up, rubbing his jaw. "It's been a couple years, but I still can't believe Bruce actually has a kid. I mean—after all those lectures about using a robber, he ends up with a child."

Alfred gave a dry smile. "Well, Master Dick, he is the offspring of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul."

"Right. Exactly." Dick deadpanned, catching the sarcasm.

Damian still hadn't gone through the full extent of Bruce Wayne's training—not yet. But what most people didn't realize was that Ra's al Ghul had already forged a soldier in him. A weapon sharp enough to go toe-to-toe with Batman in hand-to-hand combat, maybe even better than Bruce himself could've imagined.

But the real kicker? There was someone else out there who had the best of both worlds—trained by Bruce and by Ra's. That was Red Hood. A soldier crafted in trauma and fury, and molded by the two most dangerous men in his life.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Roman Sionis's POV]

"What the fuck are you telling me right now, Li?" Roman growled, his voice jagged with rage as he paced back and forth across the polished concrete floor of his office. The soles of his shoes hit with impatient weight, echoing in the high-ceilinged room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Gotham's fog-choked skyline.

Ms. Li stood on the other side of his desk, calm and composed as ever, her tailored suit crisp, tablet in hand. She adjusted her thin-rimmed glasses and answered without flinching. "The main shipment was hit, sir. The crew found a crowbar left at the drop zone on the boat. It was him."

Roman froze mid-step, lips parting in disbelief. "You mean to tell me he didn't even meet the Fearsome Fucking Four? I moved product and weapons to that fake location just for them to catch this bastard. That was supposed to be his grave, not a goddamn ghost town. And now you're telling me he found the real drop?"

"Yes," she replied, swiping across her screen. "He bypassed the trap entirely."

Roman dragged a hand down his masked face and spun back toward her. "How the fuck did he even find out about the chopper and the boat? We got a rat?"

Ms. Li kept her tone clinical, despite the storm of fury in front of her. "No clear indication of a leak yet, sir. The crew on board reported blacking out—no pain, no noise, no warning. They just… dropped. But the pilot gave us something more. He said someone disguised like one of ours climbed into the chopper, probably hidden beneath the cargo tarp."

Roman paused, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stared at her. "Say that again."

"The pilot said he was flying when he felt cold steel against the back of his skull. Said the guy looked like one of ours, uniform and all. Before he could react, the guy forced the autopilot on, yanked him out of the cockpit, and then—suddenly, numbness. He passed out like the others, just… lights out. No pain. Woke up with the rest, all of them dumped on the deck of the boat."

Roman cocked an eyebrow, eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of goddamn ninja movie?"
He turned away, muttering curses as he ran both hands through his slicked-back hair, pacing like a lion locked in a cage.

It took him a moment, but he finally stopped and looked back at her—this woman who somehow had the balls to bring him bad news straight, no sugarcoating. He respected that, even if it fed his rage.

"They all tell the same story?" he asked, tone simmering.

"Not entirely," Li replied, her voice steady as she flicked to another report. "Everyone on the chopper had nearly identical experiences. But the men already stationed on the boat? They said they saw someone dressed like pick-up crew, but just when they got suspicious—bam, out cold. He got them before they could move."

Roman's expression darkened like a thundercloud loomed above him, his voice rising. "He's just one fucking guy!" His arms flailed as he gestured wildly, knocking a metal paperweight off his desk.

"One guy who's now hijacked three of my drops, completely avoided the trap I had set for him with the Fearsome Four, and now he's making me look like a goddamn fool."

He clenched his fists, breathing heavy. The room seemed to shrink around him. He turned toward Li again, his tone lower now, colder, edged with something venomous.

"No more chasing him. No more trying to block him. We set a more assuring trap like a rat to cheese. We know exactly the kind of bait he can't ignore."

Li didn't react, but her brow twitched slightly at his implication. She cleared her throat. "Perhaps… you should bring this to Batman first. Before we commit more resources and risk another loss. He might—"

Roman slammed his fist down on the desk with a force that made the floor tremble. "Absolutely fucking not. If anything, I think that self-righteous bastard wants this punk out there doing his dirty work. Not wanting to get his own gloves bloody."

Li paused for a beat, expression unreadable as she considered the possibility. "It… might explain the lack of interference," she admitted quietly.

Roman dropped into his leather seat, the creak of the chair barely cutting through the growl in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on her with icy conviction.

"You know what to do," he said, voice low but with eager intention. "Get the Fearsome Hand of Four prepped. No more fucking around. I want him buried."

"Yes, sir," she said, already turning on her heel toward the exit.

Roman watched her move, then called out before she reached the door, voice full of malice.

"And tell them—bring me his head and helmet."

Without another word, Li nodded and walked out, the soft click of the closing door leaving Roman alone in his rage, the city lights beyond the window flickering like they too feared what was coming.

Would Roman finally get his hands on Red Hood? Or would Red Hood once again thwart his plan to capture him and force him towards the path he have always wanted Black Mask to take, and deliver Joker in a fucking silver platter?

- - -

[Wayne Manor – Early Morning]

The grandfather clock ticked quietly in the foyer above the Batcave, casting long shadows across the floor as the morning light crept through the tall windows. The manor was still, aside from the faint clatter of Alfred preparing breakfast in the kitchen and the occasional rustle of a suit jacket as Bruce Wayne moved through the hallway like an angry dad in expensive fabric, cause he was.

Without the knowledge of his boys, he had gone back to revisit and investigate their chase against Red Hood that night.

He'd returned just before dawn—cape shredded at the edges, boots soaked with seawater, and his expression unreadable. Another encounter with Jason, another empty-handed chase. The chopper was gone, the cargo vanished, and Red Hood had made it out again with that same smug wave.

And now, on top of it all, his sons had beaten the hell out of each other.

Bruce stopped just outside Damian's room. The door was slightly ajar. A quiet clink of glass came from inside.

He pushed it open slowly.

Damian stood by his bathroom mirror, shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder. A sizable bruise had bloomed beneath his right eye, already dark purple.

Another mottled bruise curled across his ribs. His knuckles were raw. His posture was straight, proud as ever, but there was a stiffness in the way he breathed.

Alfred now stood behind him with a small kit open on the sink after rounding up his kitchen duties, dabbing an ice-cold bag gently beneath the boy's eye. He worked methodically, like he was patching up a soldier before another battle. Which, in a way, he was.

Bruce crossed his arms. "I told you both to get to bed."

Damian didn't flinch. "He instigated it."

Alfred raised a brow. "Master Dick offered you a spar. You accepted. Then drew a sword."

"He insulted me."

"You insulted him first."

"He questioned my loyalty."

"You questioned his legitimacy."

Damian turned around sharply. "He's not even blood—"

Bruce's voice shut him up like a whip; "Enough."

The silence that followed was thick.

"You're going to school. Science fair. You remember?"

Damian scoffed. "You want me to parade myself like this? I look like a thug."

Alfred stepped in before Bruce could respond. "You look like a child who lost a sparring match. Which is far more honorable than a child who refuses to learn from one."

Damian grumbled something in Arabic under his breath.

Alfred, unbothered, opened a small velvet pouch from his kit and produced a few slim bottles of professional-grade concealer. He lined them up like surgical tools.

"I've covered shrapnel wounds, black eyes, and worse. Your face will be pristine, Master Damian. Though I suggest you avoid harsh lighting and any mirrors in the cafeteria."

Damian rolled his eyes but stood still as Alfred dabbed the makeup expertly beneath his swollen eye.

Bruce stood by the doorway, watching. He could see it, the tension in Damian's jaw, the silent fury barely masked by that Wayne-bred stoicism. But there was pain there, too. Not just physical. Something deeper. Something bruised and never quite healed, maybe from Talia, maybe from the League, maybe from him.

He should've stepped in last night. Stopped the fight before it started.

And part of him had wanted to see it play out, see how far they'd push each other. Maybe test the edges of what kind of Robin Damian really was.

Bruce exhaled. Quietly.

"Do you want me to talk to your teacher?" he asked.

Damian didn't answer at first. Alfred kept dabbing, blending in a bit of warmth into the skin tone.

"I'm not weak," Damian muttered finally. "They'll ask what happened."

"Then tell them you fell."

"I don't lie."

"Then tell them you fought your brother."

Bruce stepped closer, arms uncrossed now. His voice softened, just a little.

"You're not weak, Damian. But you don't have to win every fight to prove something."

Damian tilted his chin up defiantly. "Maybe I do. He was Robin before me. So was Todd. And Grayson. All of them. And yet I'm the one who carries your blood, and still I have to fight for it."

"You don't have to fight us," Bruce said quietly.

Damian looked at him through the mirror, not directly. "Then stop making me."

Alfred placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, just a firm press of reassurance. "Right. Off you go. Your project on cryogenic cell stasis awaits. Hopefully it will be slightly less violent than last night's biology lesson."

Damian nodded, grabbed his backpack from the corner, and marched out, head high.

As the door closed behind him, Bruce lingered. His gaze drifted to the makeup kit still sitting open, a smudge of concealer staining one of the brushes.

"Did I do the right thing?" he asked, not looking at Alfred.

"You gave him a home," Alfred replied, closing the kit. "Now you have to remind him he doesn't have to fight for it every day."

Bruce said nothing. Just watched the sun finally stretch across the manor's long hallway, lighting up old portraits.

"Coffee, Master Wayne?"

Bruce nodded absently. "Stronger than usual."

Alfred was already on his way down the hall. "I assumed as much."

- - -

The gymnasium was buzzing.

Tables lined with tri-fold boards and half-finished projects filled the space like a cluttered battlefield of middle school ambition. Volcano models bubbling, solar system mobiles spinning lazily, electric circuits zapping on cue. Kids hustled back and forth in wrinkled uniforms, trying to hold it together under the weight of parental expectations and last-minute glue disasters.

At the far end, under the sharp white lights of the upper gym, stood Damian Wayne.

He looked like he didn't belong. Probably because he didn't. Unlike the rest of the other kids his age, he was an assasin—a killer.

His blazer was pristine, tie perfectly knotted, and his black shoes reflected the gymnasium fluorescents. But there was a faint stiffness in how he stood beside his board. His right eye, carefully concealed with Alfred's expert touch, still carried the faintest shadow of purple beneath the surface. You had to be looking closely but it was there. Especially if you knew what to look for.

A few kids stared. Some whispered.

He heard them all.

"Did he get jumped?"

"Probably got into a fight, you know he is a very violent person."

"Nah, I heard he's in a gang—"

"Told you he's weird."

Damian ignored them. His board stood behind him—Cryogenic Suspension: Viability for Human Organ Preservation and Revival. Bold letters. Organized data. A working model of a cryochamber mock-up stood beside it, cold vapor hissing lightly from the nozzle of a Carbon dioxide tank.

"Next group—Damian Wayne?"

He stepped forward with military demeanor.

Clearing his throat, he launched into his presentation. His voice was calm, crisp, and matter-of-fact, nothing like the nervous mumblings of the others. He spoke of molecular degradation, cellular stasis, brain signal recovery latency—his language was sharp, deliberate, even intimidating.

The teachers nodded, impressed. One whispered to the other, "He sounds like he's already in college."

But Damian could feel the stares. Not from the judges, from the others. Watching. Whispering. Judging.

He fought the heat rising in his chest. Not from embarrassment, from restraint. This wasn't a battlefield. There was no blade in his hand. Just facts and data and judgment.

Still, his hands remained clenched behind his back until the end.

When the last question was asked, something about ethical implications, Damian answered with practiced ease, gave a sharp nod, and stepped back.

Applause followed, polite and brief.

But as he returned to his table, he didn't bask in it. He didn't smile.

He didn't need their approval.

He had done what was required. And more than anything, he wanted to be gone.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

Flashes of Jason without the hood on—darting across Gotham's rain-slick rooftops bare footed, while being chased relentlessly by men dressed in League outfit and without faces, ripped through his unconscious mind like some cursed highlight reel. They had nothing but a black void around their faces.

His body twitched and turned beneath tangled sheets, reacting like someone
locked in a fever dream. The tension wouldn't break—until the Joker's face surfaced in the fog of his nightmare.

His eyes snapped open like a crackhead jolted by withdrawal, wide and bloodshot.
Jason shot up, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths. The air in the room felt stale, thick with the leftover humidity from last night's sweat-soaked torment.

His sheets clung to his skin like damp clothes after a storm, the mattress beneath him sticky with the evidence of whatever the hell his body had just been through. It felt like he'd just finished an intense workout or wrestled a demon in his sleep—hell, maybe both.

"Fuck…" he muttered, his voice hoarse as he raised a shaky hand to his head. It ached. Not like a sharp migraine, but a dull, swaying sort of ache—like the come-down of a mild hangover mixed with the sluggish drag of being drugged.

He felt weird. Off. Not sick enough to be concerned, just... off-kilter.

Disoriented.

Food and water might help—always did.
Groaning, Jason rubbed at his eyelids and wiped his hand down his face, trying to shake off the lingering weight of sleep. It was like waking up after getting roofied—except he'd been conscious the entire damn time, living every minute of last night's chase in real time. But his recollection of last night's chase was a bit…vague, almost meshed up with the recollection of his nightmare.

He needed to be grounded. To feel something real. So, naturally, he reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back to clear his vision.

"Why does it feel like I was both the driver and the passenger?" he muttered, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the cracked mirror by the wall.

His eyes were sunken, his jaw tight with tension. A hint of stubble lined his face, and a faint bruise ghosted along his collarbone—remnants from last night's rooftop escapade.

"Damn... I slept through the whole day," he mumbled, yawning as he swung his legs off the bed. His joints cracked. "Body's really putting that nocturnal factor to good use, huh?" he added dryly, stretching as he made his way to the kitchen.

The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the orange hue spilling through the cracked blinds. Dust hung lazily in the air, swirling in tiny golden orbs with every step he took across the wooden floor. The hum of the ceiling fan did little to cool the place; it still felt like a sauna.

And lately he's been thinking this place has served it's purpose of helping him lay low until he hot his bearings, now he could get a better place. Hopefully one with the perks this one provides.

He opened the fridge, the cool burst of air a welcome relief as he grabbed a bottle of water and scanned the shelves for something easy—pulled out a pack of bread, some cold cuts, cheese, mustard, and whatever else he could throw into a half-decent sandwich.

Hunger gnawed at him like a pit bull. He was parched too, the kind of thirst that felt like his throat had been scrubbed with sandpaper. That sweat-drenched wake-up call definitely didn't help.

As he prepped a few sloppy but satisfying sandwiches, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a long sip, letting the citrus bite bring some clarity back to his senses. One sandwich down, he munched while still making more, movements slow but steady—like his body was remembering how to function properly again.

From where he stood, he could see the TV across the room. The news was on—some talking head blabbing about last night's power outage and the mysterious chopper crash in the Narrows. Jason barely looked. Instead, he pulled out his phone, scrolling idly while he chewed.

Good. The bank transactions had gone through. His new 'business partners' were keeping up their end of the deal. Smart.

Because if they hadn't, he would've paid them a visit they wouldn't forget.

Now that he had them under control, it was time to think ahead. He needed someone in the government. Someone with enough influence to move things if needed. Bruce had Gordon. He needed someone too.

Digging up dirt on politicians... Not exactly what he thought he'd be doing when he came back to Gotham, but these were strange times. And politicians always had dirt—piles of it, just waiting to be unearthed. All he had to do was find one with real sway over the cops.

The mayor. Perfect target.

A guy like that—smiling for cameras, kissing babies, pretending to give a damn—there was no way he was clean.

Jason would find the cracks in the facade.
"Wait… does this even align with my goal for Black Mask and Joker?" he asked himself aloud, chewing slowly now as the thought rolled through his mind.

He leaned against the counter, lost in thought.

"No... I'd need a connection like that for Joker."

He nodded to himself. "Stay the course. Get to Joker through Black Mask. Clean house. Then? Then I can introduce my crowbar to Roman's thick skull."

Jason grinned at the thought—dark, satisfied. The Joker, the freak who got off on pain and chaos, would get exactly what he craved. And more.

And if Ms. Li didn't flip on Black Mask and seize his throne, he'd have to turn to Big Lou and Sofia—have their families carve up Roman's territory cleanly. No messy gang war. Just a fast, silent power shift. Better than letting the vultures tear the city apart.

Finishing his last sandwich and sipping the rest of his juice, Jason wiped his mouth and set the glass down with a clink. His headache had finally dulled—probably just dehydration after all. Still, something inside him felt... foggy. Unsettled.

He knew the cure.

He made his way toward the bench press in the corner of his apartment, tucked between crates of ammo and half-repaired weapons.

Time to sweat this out the old-fashioned way.

He loaded the bar with heavy weights, the clink of iron plates echoing through the room. Then he laid back on the bench and wrapped his hands around the cold barbell. With a deep breath, he pushed it off the rack.

It lifted with almost no effort. Jason blinked. "What the fuck...?" he muttered, gently lowering it back onto the supports.

He tried again.

Thirty-five reps—clean, fast, fluid—no tremble, no struggle. That was a weight he used to max out at twelve reps on. Twelve.

And even then, it left his arms burning for the next set. Now? He could've done fifty and still gotten up for a jog.

Ever since coming back to Gotham, his body had felt... different. Stronger. Faster. Almost like he was pushing past normal human limits. The kind of physical boost you'd expect from a guy like Deathstroke. Only... Jason was stronger. Faster. Sharper.

But it has been subtle, until now. He'd ignored it at first. Brushed it off as adrenaline, or maybe muscle memory from all those brutal League training sessions.
But now?

It wasn't going away.

And the night of the rooftop chase—that was the proof. His speed, his agility—it had reached a peak he'd never experienced. Every leap, every twist across the skyline felt effortless. And he hadn't even been winded.

Even when Damian came flying out of the shadows with his little assassin tricks and went for the legs, Jason moved on pure instinct. His punch had come fast, hard—too hard. He had to pull it back last second, tone it down. He hadn't wanted to kill Ra's al Ghul's grandson. Or Talia's son. Or... Bruce's.

That fact still sat heavy in his chest.

Even with this power coursing through him, he wasn't invincible. A dead man is still a dead man. And Roman? That bastard would sell a piece of his own soul to get Jason's head on a spike.

So no—this wasn't just a gift. It could be a liability. He has to study himself and learn to control and adapt his new stats.

But one thing gnawed at him more than anything else; 'How did I know to pull my punch?' That question stuck with him, burrowing deeper.

Because the answer... probably lived in the three missing years of his life. The dark, blank space he couldn't recover.

'The closest I know about such attribute, is that they are results of the Mirakuru serum. I do not recall ever being experimented on, not even to save my life. Or could I? Some twisted resurrection experiment after I washed up dying off the coast of Lian Yu?

Or was it responsible for his missing memory.'

He didn't know.

But he intended to find out.

- - -

[Batcave]

Later that evening, Bruce stood in full Batman gear, the cape resting heavily across his shoulders. Or better put—his daily fit. Because let's face it, Bruce Wayne was the alias. Batman was the true identity. Unlike most heroes who wore masks to become someone else, Bruce wore his to be himself.

The Batcave hummed quietly with the low buzz of the mainframe, the sound of soft typing echoing between distant stone walls. Fluorescent lighting glinted off the rows of preserved suits in their glass cases and the array of Batmobiles parked like sleeping beasts in the shadows.

"How was the Science Fair?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the surveillance feeds cycling across the monitors. He could feel Damian behind him, creeping silently, hoping to get the drop on him. Maybe it was to boost his pride, to prove he could sneak up on the man even his granfather acknowledged.

"Tch. Nothing special. I took first place—as expected." Damian dropped out of stealth mode like it was nothing, slipping back into his usual cool and collected demeanor, standing tall with arms crossed. "The other kids didn't stand a chance. Their morale nosedived after my presentation."

Bruce finally turned his head, just slightly. "It's good you're excelling in school," he said calmly. "But don't look down on the other kids. You can be better without stepping on people to do it."

Teaching Damian humility after a lifetime of being raised by the League of Assassins wasn't something he expected to achieve overnight, but still—there was no better time to start than now.

Batman's gaze shifted back to the monitors, eyes scanning camera angles of alleyways, rooftops, and industrial docks. The city never slept. Neither did he. After a moment, he asked without looking, "How about your friend? The one you mentioned the other day."

Damian's expression tightened a little. "His resilience at trying to befriend me really does get on my nerves," he muttered, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth—a hint of something that might've been fondness if he wasn't actively trying to suppress it.

Bruce gave a small grunt. "You need friends your age. At least one."

"I don't need friends. They can be liabilities." Damian's reply was sharp, automatic. But Bruce heard the hesitation beneath the surface.

Silence followed. Just the low whirring of Batcave tech and the distant, rhythmic drip of condensation echoing off cold stone walls.

"Dick made an annoying gesture last night," Damian spoke up again, eyes flicking across the cave until they landed on a specific glass display case. "And it's been bugging me ever since."

Bruce raised a brow, subtly. "What gesture?"

"He…drew my attention to something." Damian gestured toward the display containing Dick's old Robin suit, now pristine and preserved behind reinforced glass. "But then I noticed something."

He pointed from one display to the next. "That one's Dick's. That one's Barbara's. But this one—" He paused, pointing toward another suit. "This one isn't his. And I know it's not mine either. I was never allowed near it. So… whose is it?"

Bruce froze.

That case.

That suit.

He didn't want to lie. Couldn't bring himself to. And so, he turned to face his son fully for the first time since the conversation started. His voice came low, soft—weighted.

"That's Jason's," he said, and even though he kept his face stoic, Damian heard the unmistakable grief woven into the breath behind the name.

Damian caught it instantly. That undertone of loss. It settled into the silence like a fog.

He hesitated, unsure of how to follow up. He'd never seen his father falter like that, never heard his voice soften like a grieving man's.

"Is he…?" Damian couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. But Bruce already knew what he meant.

"Yes," Bruce said simply, eyes locked on the suit in the case.

A long pause stretched between them.

"I'm… sorry." Damian's voice came out quieter than he expected. He stood there, feeling something new crawl into his chest—empathy, maybe. "I know there are moments when we must be warriors… but there are also times we must allow ourselves to feel. Otherwise those buried emotions—they can break us from the inside."

Bruce didn't respond immediately, but he appreciated the words. In his own way, Damian was trying.

"What happened?" the boy asked, drawn in by the sadness painted across Bruce's face. He'd seen that look in strangers who'd lost loved ones… never in his father.

Bruce shifted his weight and leaned one hand against the console. The glow from the monitor flickered across his jaw, highlighting every weary line that age and regret had etched into it.

"After being too strict with Dick, I thought I'd give Jason more freedom," he said, voice calm but laced with years of guilt. "I should've been paying more attention. He wanted to prove himself. Went off alone. And then that monster killed him."

He turned his gaze toward the far corner of the cave where he kept his collection of some notable takeaways from his rogues' gallery. Among them—Joker's playing cards. That grotesque smile is forever frozen in ink.

With a heavy exhale, Bruce added, "He died because of me. I'd do anything to fix that."

Damian was silent. There were no rehearsed responses for something like this. No clever retort. No League of Assassins training that prepared him to comfort a grieving parent.

"It wasn't your fault," he finally said, heading toward the exit ramp of the Batcave. His voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "He died doing what he believed in—being a hero. There's no greater honor than dying for a cause."

He paused at the threshold, lingering with his hand on the stair rail. His cape swayed gently behind him as the air vents kicked on overhead.

"Whether it was your fault or not… that's not for me to say. I wasn't there. And I wouldn't pretend to understand your pain. But I get it now." With that, Damian left his father alone with the silence.

Bruce stood there. Still. Silent. Haunted.

And then the memories came rushing in—uninvited and overwhelming.

The explosion.

The sharp pain in his chest as he flew toward that burning warehouse, hoping, praying he wasn't too late. The sight of Jason's broken body—burned, lifeless. His cape scorched. The walls smeared with ash. He'd cradled his son's corpse in his arms, whispering useless apologies into the smoke as if they'd bring him back.

The funeral. The weight of that coffin. The moment Alfred had to steady him when his knees nearly gave out behind closed doors.

His breath hitched.

One hand moved instinctively to his chest as if trying to ease a phantom pain. Tears stung at his eyes, and for once, he didn't fight them. They carved silent trails down his cheeks, catching in the corners of his cowl. The reflection of Jason's costume glimmered in the glass, overlaid with the image of a man shattered inside.

This—this was why he became Batman. To stop this kind of pain. To protect the innocent. To ensure no child ever lost their parents the way he had. To deal justice so fierce that it makes criminals think twice before they begin their daily dose shenanigans.

Bruce Wayne was just a mask now. The real him—the one who barely slept, who threw himself into the night with bruises and broken bones—was here, in this cave, mourning a child he couldn't save.

And to make it worse, the man responsible still lived.

The Joker.

That sadistic clown who killed just to hear the punchline. Who would happily blow up a school bus full of kids and laugh as the world burned. Bruce had sent him away again and again—Arkham, Blackgate, back to Arkham—and every time, he got out. The system failed. Again and again.

And each time, more blood.

Jason's blood.

Unbeknownst to him, Jason was back-from the grave. Broken. Changed.

No longer the same boy. Hell, not even a boy anymore.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, he had to protect what was still his.

Damian.

He clenched his jaw.

He wouldn't lose another son.

His mind played some images—Red Hood with a crowbar, standing over someone. That same crowbar sticking out of someone else's chest.

What if the next time, it was Dick?

What if it was Damian?

"No," Bruce muttered under his breath, straightening, wiping the tear droplets away with the back of his gloved hand. The warmth had drained from his face, and the Batman returned.

"I won't let that happen. I can't let that happen. I must stop him."

And just like that, the man who had been grieving… disappeared into the cowl. The Bat was back.

And he had a mission.

- - -

More chapters? Please, do well to support me on Patreon to gain early access to exclusive chapters ahead of my public release.

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Batman was back at the console, eyes locked on the screen, bathed in the cold blue light from the monitors. The Batcave around him was dead quiet, save for the low hum of servers and the occasional mechanical buzz from the Batcomputer cycling through data. Somewhere above, the manor slept.

But Bruce hadn't rested. Couldn't. Not with this nagging feeling gnawing at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn't reach.

He reloaded the footage from the other night—the rooftop chase. The one where he, Dick, and Damian had Red Hood cornered for a moment before he pulled that clean getaway.

It had been bothering Bruce since the second it happened. Something about the way he moved. The precision in his steps. The rhythm of his escape.

He leaned in as the footage played. Red Hood was fast, chaotic, but not careless. Everything was deliberate. He watched him sever the cable mid-swing, descend that building, and disappear right before the train thundered by and blocked the view.

Bruce usually stopped reviewing there. Same point every time. But tonight, something held him. He played that last second a few more times. Then he caught it.

Right before the train screeched past and swallowed the scene, Red Hood's head tilted slightly. He said something.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Pause."
He scrubbed back and watched it again. Slower.

Red Hood was saying something.
The words weren't clear through the train's rumble, but Bruce could hear something. Just barely.

"You're a bit rusty, but you haven't lost your touch, Bru—" The clip cut off right as the train screamed past.

Bruce sat back slowly, brows furrowed. That wasn't just some snide remark. That was personal. The way he said "Bru—"—not Batman, not Bats. It felt… familiar.

Too familiar.

With a grunt, he leaned forward again and began isolating the audio. He activated the Batcomputer's forensic software and separated the sound channels, filtering out the noise pollution from the train.

He enhanced Red Hood's vocal frequency, amped it up, cleared background distortion, and ran the sequence again.
"You're a bit rusty, but you haven't lost your touch, Bruce."

He froze.

The voice echoed through the speakers—clear, distinct, deliberate.

Since the incident with the factory, he came as no surprise that Red Hood knew his identity. But the question was, how?

Without wasting a second, he ran the voice through the Batcomputer's vocal recognition system. The program buzzed to life, comparing it against thousands of samples in the archives. He stood up now, his eyes locked on the screen, hands gripping the edge of the console.

The result popped up.

MATCH FOUND: JASON TODD.

A photo of Jason as a teenager, his file photo—flickered onto the screen. That cocky, mischievous smirk staring back at him like a ghost from another life. The name Jason Todd was stamped underneath in bold white letters.
Bruce's breath caught.

Bruce stared at the screen, stunned. His heart thudded once, hard, and then settled into a colder rhythm.

"No," he muttered.

There was no way.

And then—crash.

Behind him, the sharp clatter of broken ceramic rang out. He spun around to see Alfred standing at the bottom of the staircase, a shattered teacup at his feet. His face was pale, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

He'd seen the screen.

He'd heard the name.

"How… how is this possible?" Alfred asked, his voice soft and cracked in a way Bruce hadn't heard in years.

He didn't have to say much else. Jason wasn't just Bruce's loss—he was Alfred's too. The boy had lived under their roof. Eaten Alfred's meals, wore the suits he pressed, and learned lessons from him when Bruce couldn't. Alfred had helped raise him like one of his own.

Bruce looked at him, jaw tense. "Alfred…"

"Are you saying—Jason… he's alive?" The older man's voice was trembling. "Red Hood… that's him?"

Bruce didn't respond directly. He just turned back toward the locker where he kept emergency gear, tugging on a black jacket over his shoulders and grabbing a long, dirt-worn shovel from its rack. His face had changed.

The guilt was still there, but it had shifted. Now it was blended with something sharper. Focused. Determined.

"There's only one way to be sure," he said as he walked past Alfred, heading toward the exit that led outside.

The graveyard behind Wayne Manor was quiet and still. The air was cool, thick with moisture from an earlier drizzle, and the ground was soft beneath Bruce's boots.

Tall oaks lined the perimeter, casting long shadows under the dim moonlight barely breaking through the clouds.

He moved with purpose, not bothering with gloves or gadgets. Just him and a shovel.

And a name.

He walked past the graves of the Waynes—his parents, until he reached the smaller headstone a little farther down the hill. It was simple. Clean.

Jason Todd.

The date of birth. The date of death. Flowers long since dried lay at the base of the stone, their stems brittle from time.

Bruce shrugged off his jacket, folded it carefully, and laid it on top of the gravestone. Then he rolled up his sleeves and pressed the shovel into the dirt.
The first scoop hit with a heavy thud.
He worked quietly, slowly, methodically.

His breath was calm, focused, but beneath the surface, thoughts raced. Every memory. Every moment he'd failed Jason—all of it bubbled to the surface with every shove of the blade.
He had to know.

He needed to know.

Inside the manor, Damian stirred.

He had gone to bed early after the conversation with his father. No patrol tonight. But somewhere around 2 a.m., he woke with a dry throat and an itch in his gut that something was off.

He threw on his robe and padded down the dark hallway barefoot, heading to the kitchen. As he poured himself a glass of water, his eyes drifted to the window.

He stopped mid-sip.

There, in the distance, he saw the beam of a flashlight cutting through the mist over the graveyard. And beneath it—his father.

Digging.

"What the—" he muttered, setting the glass down.

By the time Damian reached the yard, Bruce had already uncovered the coffin.
Alfred stood a few feet away, flashlight in his hand, his expression pale and worried.

"Master Bruce," he said quietly, "Are you absolutely sure about this? What if you… what if you see something you're not ready for?"

Bruce didn't hesitate. "I have to be sure. This is the only way."

He crouched down, brushed dirt from the edge of the coffin lid, and unlatched it.
A sudden voice cut through the still night.

"I didn't take you for a grave robber," Damian said, standing just behind Alfred with his arms folded, clearly unimpressed but deeply confused.

Bruce didn't answer him. He took a deep breath and opened the lid.

All three of them leaned over.
And froze.

Jason lay there—untouched. His body hadn't decomposed. He hadn't aged. He looked exactly the same as the day they buried him. Peaceful. Still. Like he was just… sleeping.

Damian's brow furrowed. "Okay… that's creepy." It looked just like the Jason he knew from the League. It looked exactly the same as the time he first met him. But he held on to this realization, not wanting to draw conclusions until he got an explanation.

Alfred's lips parted in disbelief. "He hasn't changed," he whispered. "Not even a day."
Damian stepped forward and read the date on the gravestone again. "This was years ago… How is this possible?" The same year Jason came into their lives in the mountains.

Bruce stared down at Jason's body, fists clenched at his sides. "I should've known."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "You mind explaining what that means, or should I start guessing?"

Bruce didn't answer. He just reached up and grabbed Alfred's hand, letting the older man help him climb out of the grave.
"I'll explain when I get back," Bruce said, brushing dirt from his shirt and grabbing his jacket from the headstone.

Damian rolled his eyes. "That's not an answer, that's a plot dodge. Where are you going?"

Bruce pulled on the jacket and turned back toward the manor, his tone dead serious.
"To get answers."

There was no hesitation. No doubt. Just a cold, focused certainty in his voice.
He didn't say it out loud, but he knew who could've pulled this off.

Who had the knowledge. The resources. The means to bring back the dead.

Jason hadn't just come back on his own.
Someone brought him back.

He was going to find out exactly how it happened, even if he had to dig deeper than any grave to do it.

- - -

Bruce, now fully suited in the Bat costume, piloted the Batwing high above the clouds, slicing through the cold air of the mountain range like a predator in the dark. Below him, nestled into the jagged cliffs like a fortress built into the bones of the Earth, was the new home base of the League of Assassins.

With a few taps on the console, the Batwing engaged its cloaking tech—light-bending camouflage that rendered it invisible even to infrared scans. It shimmered once, then vanished completely from sight. Batman guided the craft into a hidden ridge just outside the compound, setting it down without a whisper.

Once on foot, he moved like smoke—silent, shapeless, invisible. The cold mountain wind bit through the narrow paths, howling between ancient stone walls and sleek, modern architecture reinforced with brutal precision. League guards patrolled the outer grounds in pairs, but none noticed the shadow weaving between them.

He slipped past infrared beams, ducked under security cams, and ghosted through pressure-triggered corridors. Not a single step echoed. Not a breath gave him away.
Like a phantom, he glided through the dark belly of the base, deeper and deeper toward the main building—toward her. The woman who complicated his life more than any villain he'd ever faced. The mother of his son.

The woman who raised more questions than she ever answered.

Talia al Ghul.

The mother of his arrogant, infuriating, brilliant, prideful little menace who gave him more headaches than Gotham's entire rogues' gallery.

Honestly, Bruce had started using the city's criminals as punching bags just to blow off the stress Damian caused on a weekly basis.

He came to a pair of tall, ancient doors, ornate, carved with symbols older than any modern tongue. Silent as death, he cracked one open just enough to peer through.

There she was.

Talia sat behind a desk of polished obsidian, legs crossed, reading a leather-bound book with that same calm, unreadable expression she always wore—like she was trying to channel the wisdom of her father through posture alone. Now that she'd inherited his title, she dressed the part. Regal. Cold. Timeless.

The room was dim, illuminated only by a few candles and the pale light of the moon pouring through the high arched windows. Shadows painted the walls like old ghosts. He slipped inside, melting into those shadows, moving without a sound.

He didn't come here for closure or pleasantries. He was here for answers. The kind you don't ask nicely for.

He crept behind her, careful and precise. This was her domain, and the element of surprise was his only advantage.

But Talia wasn't just anyone. In one swift motion, she sensed the shift in air behind her, reached for her desk, and spun around.

Their weapons met at each other's throats. His Batarang pressed tight against her skin, while her hidden pen-knife gleamed inches from his own.

She smirked.

"You know," she said in that familiar and soul soothing voice, calm and sharp like a dagger in silk, "a romantic lover might present a flower. Not a murdering tool." Bruce didn't even blink.

He ignored the bait, eyes hard beneath the cowl. "Tell me what you and that sociopathic father of yours did to my son."
Talia tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Your son?" She played dumb, but there was a flicker—an ever-so-slight falter.

"Did something happen to Damian?"

"Not Damian." Batman's voice was low, heavy. "His predecessor. Robin. The one who died."

Her gaze shifted. The lie lingered on her tongue, but she didn't speak it.
"I don't know what you mean, Bruce. I have no ide—"

"Cut the crap and give me answers." He leaned in, the Batarang pressing into her neck. His jaw was tight, fury simmering behind those sharp, cold eyes. It wasn't rage. It was pain. Raw and volcanic.

Talia held his gaze, unblinking, and slowly eased her arm down. The pen clattered softly on the desk. "Fine," she said, voice quiet but steady. "But if I talk, you'll listen."
He stepped back and lowered his weapon—but not his guard. "Start at the beginning."

She took her time, walking to a nearby counter where a crystal decanter of wine sat with two glasses. The movement was deliberate, graceful, all part of her control.
"Care for one as well?" she asked, holding up a glass.

His silence was answer enough.
She poured herself a drink anyway. "Suit yourself."

Talia swirled the wine, took a sip, then began.

"Five years ago, you were closing in on my father. You were a thorn in his side. Getting too close to things you shouldn't. So he made what I would call a rare mistake, he tried outsourcing the distraction." Batman didn't flinch.

"He hired the Joker."

Her voice thinned. "Of course, that clown went rogue. Took it too far. And Robin—Jason—paid the price for it."
She said it plainly, without drama. But she wasn't unaffected. Not completely.
"My father tried to make amends in the only way he knew how.

We swapped the real body with a replica and buried the double. You were grieving too hard to notice. We flew the real one out of Bosnia."

Bruce stared at her, every word like a gut punch. He hadn't noticed. Not the switch, not the weight difference. Nothing. He'd been too broken.

"You used the pit," he said, eyes locking onto hers.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "But what came out wasn't Jason. It was… something else. An empty shell. Wild. Feral. He came out screaming and ran straight off a cliff before we could catch him. Not before killing a few of our men."

She paced now, glass in hand. "We thought he died again. My father chose not to tell you. He said reopening that wound would be cruel."

Bruce's expression was unreadable beneath the mask, but his silence spoke volumes. Doubt. Shame. Anger. All swirling behind those eyes.

"We searched for days," she continued.
"Eventually, we found him. He killed and injured few of my men before we could subdue him. But when he woke up… something had changed. He remembered nothing. Not his name. Not you. Nothing from his life before."

There it was. The confirmation. Jason had survived. And Red Hood was not a delusion.

"Why hide it?" Batman asked, voice low and rough.

"Because it wasn't my secret to tell." She turned to face him fully now, glass cradled in her palm. "Jason became Ra's' personal apprentice. My father saw something in him. A successor, maybe."

She looked down at her wine. "I wanted to tell you. I thought… maybe it would help ease your pain. But betraying my father wasn't something I could bring myself to do."

Bruce didn't snap. Didn't yell. He just waited. Watching. Processing.
Talia's lips pressed together, but she went on.

"After Ra's died, the League went to war with Deathstroke's mercenaries. Jason fought in that war. He wanted revenge."
That surprised him.

Now there were two sons loyal to Ra's al Ghul.

"Three years ago, on the island of Lian Yu, Jason and Slade fought. The others found only blood. Jason and Deathstroke vanished. No bodies. Just a trail. A lot of blood at the cliff's edge. One spot looked like the victim almost bled out before dropping to the sea. The other? Drag marks. Someone moved the body."
Batman's jaw clenched under the cowl. Talia wasn't lying. Or if she was, she was too good to catch.

"You haven't seen him since?" he asked.
"Not a word. Nothing. He's presumed dead. Again."

She walked to the window, letting the moonlight bathe her face. She looked different now. Tired. Maybe even remorseful.

"You could've told me when your father died," he said quietly. "Or when you brought Damian to me. You had plenty of chances."

"I—" She turned back.

But he was already gone. No cape. No shadow. No whisper of movement.

Talia stood in the moonlit silence, alone with her wine and the truth she'd finally spoken. She opened her mouth, maybe to defend herself. Maybe to ask for understanding.

But Batman had vanished, just like the ghost he'd arrived as. And he left behind only questions.


- - -

A/N:—

While working on this latest chapter—where I really leaned into the emotional weight between Bruce and Jason, and peeled back some of the layers of DC's most emotionally repressed family of heroes—I had a random thought that completely derailed me.

Imagine this:

You're just some low-level grave thief or wannabe tomb raider. Middle of the night. Graveyard's quiet. You're doing your shady little thing, maybe looking for jewelry or whatever your creepy hustle is.

Then you see him. Batman. Full gear. Cape. Cowl. No Batmobile. Just a shovel, digging up a grave like it's his side hustle.

And before you can nope your way out of there, he turns—slowly—makes full eye contact with you from the shadows.

No words. No context. Just that soul-punching Batman glare while holding a shovel like he's about to bury your entire existence.

I had to stop writing for a full minute because the image had me laughing like I had briefly gone insane.

Like, the emotional intensity in this chapter was so high… and then my brain was like: "But what if 'Batman Grave Digger Mode'?"

Anyway—hope y'all enjoy the chapter. Let me know what cursed Batman image your brain cooks up after reading it.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Now back in the Batcave during the early hours of the morning—while the world above still slept beneath the pale hush of pre-dawn—Batman had shed his cowl and cape, the armor sitting heavy across the chair beside him.

He sat alone at the console, hunched forward with tired eyes locked onto the screen, which displayed a younger version of Jason Todd, captured in a photo from brighter days. The glow from the monitor softly lit his face, highlighting the wear in his features—the lines drawn deep from grief, regret, and long-unspoken guilt.

Behind him, the sound of soft footsteps broke the silence.

"Master Bruce… is it true?" Alfred asked, his voice low but strained. He didn't need to clarify what he meant—Bruce had promised an explanation when he returned, and now he owed them one.

"Yes, Alfred," Bruce replied quietly, never taking his eyes off the screen. He sounded worn out. Not physically, but from something far worse—something that weighed on the soul.

Alfred stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, and let out a quiet breath. He looked down at the stone floor beneath his polished shoes, as if searching for the right words—or maybe trying to keep his emotions from spilling.

He had prepared himself for the possibility, had entertained the theory with Bruce when it first came up… but hearing it confirmed still knocked the wind out of him.

The boy they had once taken in. The bright, brash, angry kid who had found a place among them. Alive. But not whole.
"I saw so much potential in Jason when I first met him," Bruce began, finally leaning back, his voice low but steady.

"He had that fire in him. The kind that could burn him out—or light the way for others. If someone didn't guide that energy, if no one helped him find a path, he was destined for trouble. Jail. Or worse."

He glanced down, running a hand across his face. "So I tried. I gave him something to fight for. I thought I could teach him discipline, purpose. I really believed he'd walk that line, even if it was difficult." A heavy pause hung between them.

"But now…" Bruce exhaled, rubbing his temples with both hands as the weight of it all settled on his shoulders. "It's way too late for that now. Everything's gone sideways. He's not the same boy we buried."

"You did what you could, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly, stepping closer. He rested a hand on Bruce's shoulder, offering what little comfort he could.

For a moment, Bruce didn't speak.
Then, from the shadows near the cave entrance, Damian finally stepped forward, revealing he'd been there the whole time. Listening. Watching. His arms were folded over his chest, expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his curiosity and suspicion.

"I should have known right from the start," Bruce said, sitting upright now, his tone tinged with self-reproach and frustration.

"The bat symbol on his chest… the trap at the factory... the way he fought—my tactics, my playbook. He's elusive, fast, unpredictable… and he knows me. Knows how I move."

His voice cracked just slightly at the edge, and it was obvious—this wasn't just about being outmaneuvered. This was grief, twisted with guilt, turning into something else entirely.

Damian tilted his head, his voice cutting through the air. "That punk Jason was really Robin? One of your adopted sons?"
Bruce turned his gaze toward him, blinking once.

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes drifted back to the photo of Jason on the screen, the younger version—the boy with unruly hair and fire in his eyes.

"You know him from the League?" Bruce finally asked.

"Of course I do," Damian muttered. "He always knew how to piss me off. Grandfather's favorite student." Bruce flinched—just slightly—at those words.Talia's bruefing hadn't giving him precise depth as to just how close Jason had become to Ra's.

"That explains his movements," Bruce said to inform the rest, already processing the implications. "No wonder he's this good, but that doesn't explain his speed."

"Tell us what you remember about him, Master Damian," Alfred cut in, ever the one to move things forward.

Damian shrugged and leaned casually against one of the metal support rails that curved around the Batcomputer's platform. "He was a pain in the ass. But... I'll admit this much; he was good. Scary good.

Adapted fast, fought harder than most. Even when things got messy, he always knew how to get the upper hand."
Bruce glanced at him from the corner of his eye, listening carefully now.

"But he was unstable," Damian continued. "Sometimes after winning a fight, even when his opponent was already down—he wouldn't stop. He'd just keep going. Rage would take over. They ended up bloody. Broken. One guy didn't walk again."

Alfred stiffened slightly, his hand slowly falling from Bruce's shoulder. Bruce's expression turned cold and thoughtful, brows drawing together.

"No one—except instructors—wanted to spar with him after that," Damian added. "Especially when weapons were involved. At times he seemed like he had more than one personality or so." Bruce folded his arms. "And what did Ra's do about it?"

Damian shrugged. "He made Jason his personal project. One-on-one training. Jason learned how to keep his temper in check… for the most part. Eventually, the others started respecting him. Even feared him. He became one of the most dangerous fighters in the League. Even Lady Shiva dropped by and gave him a couple lessons."

Batman paused upon hearing that, pondering on just how good has Jason's combat skills become. And if himself could engage Red Hood in a 1v1 battle and actually come out on top without putting his own life on the line.

Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly. "So Ra's didn't tame him. He refined him."
Bruce stayed silent for a beat, jaw tightening. "He must've trained Jason at a different level than the rest. But for what purpose?"

The cave fell into a thoughtful quiet again. The soft trickle of water in the background and the distant flutter of bats overhead echoed faintly through the dark chamber, underscoring Bruce's deepening suspicion.

The glow from the computer monitors illuminated all three of them in pale blue light, painting their faces in tired shadows.
"How skilled did he become?" Alfred asked, voice gentle but firm.

Damian took a breath and let his pride drop for just a second. "I don't know the full extent. But as much as it sucks to say this—I never stood a chance. Not in his current state. Not in a real fight. And definitely not in a fight to the death."
Neither Bruce nor Alfred spoke.

"He's that far ahead," Damian added with a scowl, like it personally offended him to admit it.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose. "Talia told me he fought Deathstroke. Word was... it ended in a draw. Both bodies disappeared after the fight."

Alfred blinked, stunned. "Against Deathstroke?" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "Good heavens…" He looked to Bruce, tone grave. "You need to be careful, sir. Jason may have once been your son… but now, he might just be your most dangerous adversary."

The Batcomputer screen shifted, flickering slightly before landing on a split image—on one side, the younger Jason Todd, cocky smile and defiance in his eyes. On the other, Red Hood—fully armored, masked, silent, unreadable.

The three of them stood there, facing that screen in silence. And though no one said it out loud, the feeling settled heavily between them;

Jason hadn't just returned from the grave.
He'd come back as something else entirely.

The silence which followed was thick—almost sacred—as the screen flickered between images of Jason Todd then and now. Red Hood's mask stared back like a mirror that Bruce had long avoided.

But not anymore.

Bruce stepped away from the chair, his cape trailing slightly behind him as he walked over to the central platform. His hands were already moving—pulling up surveillance footage, recent crime scene data, known weapons caches in Gotham, old safe houses, League intel files. The Batcomputer whirred to life, processing as fast as he was thinking.

He needed a plan.

A pattern.

Something to anticipate Jason's next move before he pushed things past the point of no return.

"Jason's not just attacking criminals," Bruce muttered as if thinking aloud. "He's making statements. Leaving symbols. The crowbar on the docks, the coordinated hit on Sionis' men... He's targeting our enemies—but not like we would. He wants fear. Shock."

"He wants you to notice," Alfred added pointedly. "Every act so far has been tailor-made to send a message. Not to the city. To you, Master Bruce."

Bruce's jaw tightened.

"That's why we have to stay ahead of him," he replied, voice cool, almost methodical now. "If he's using League tactics, he'll have fallback routes. Habits. I need to revisit his old Robin patrol maps and cross-reference them with our current threat activity. He's likely operating from somewhere familiar—somewhere personal."

Damian stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice cutting in sharp. "Then I want in."

Bruce turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. "No."

Damian frowned. "You just said it yourself—he's one of the most dangerous threats Gotham's faced. You'll need backup."

"I said no," Bruce repeated. "This isn't a game. Red Hood doesn't hold back. You heard what you just said about him, Damian. You wouldn't survive that fight."

Damian's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So what? I'm just supposed to sit this out while he parades around with your symbol, twisting it into some weapon for his crusade?"

Bruce didn't answer.

"Don't forget," Damian added bitterly, "he's not the only one trained by the League. I know how he thinks too."

Bruce stepped forward, tone cold. "He was trained by Ra's personally. Fought Deathstroke. He's lived through death. You haven't. That makes all the difference."

The tension hung thick in the air.

But then, Alfred stepped forward—his voice gentler but more cutting than either of theirs.

"Forgive me, sirs. But this has gone far enough."

Both Wayne men paused.

Alfred walked to Bruce's side, not with judgment—but a heaviness in his posture that silenced them both. His gaze was on Bruce, steady and filled with something deeper than frustration. It was weariness… and heartbreak.

"You're treating this like a mission. Another file. Another criminal to map out, corner, and clean up. But Jason isn't Clayface. He isn't Riddler. He's not even Slade. He's your son."

Bruce didn't flinch—but he also didn't argue.

"You're walking headlong into a fight," Alfred continued, "but you haven't taken a moment to acknowledge what's really happening. That boy you took in—the one who used to sneak cookies from the pantry when he thought I wasn't looking—he's not just Red Hood. He's Jason."

Bruce's expression was unreadable, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with each breath.

"I know who he is," he said at last, voice low. "And that's the problem."

"No, sir," Alfred replied. "The problem is that you've already started mourning him again—only this time, while he's still alive."

That struck something deep.

Damian, now quiet, looked between the two of them, his earlier anger starting to fade beneath a more complicated emotion—confusion. Maybe even guilt.

Alfred stepped away, moving to the console and slowly sitting in the chair Bruce had just left.

"You built this place to fight crime," he said softly, gesturing around them, "but sometimes… sometimes what we're up against isn't a villain. Sometimes, it's family. And I fear this is the kind of battle that can't be won with strategy and brute force."

Bruce looked up at the screen again.

On the left, Jason's eyes—young, defiant, alive.

On the right, the blank mask of Red Hood—silent, armored, hiding everything.

He exhaled through his nose and whispered, almost to himself, "Then I'll have to find another way."

Alfred rose again. "Find a way that doesn't break him further—or destroy what's left of you in the process."

No one said anything after that.

Damian stepped back into the shadows, his mind already racing with thoughts he couldn't fully voice. Alfred turned away, heading toward the elevator in silence, hands once again clasped behind his back.

And Bruce stood still, beneath the pale glow of the monitors—haunted, calculating, grieving—and finally, beginning to accept:

The mission had changed.

It was no longer about stopping Red Hood.
It was about saving Jason Todd. His son.

Before Gotham lost him for good.

Before he, lost him for good.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The silence in the Batcave was thick—almost sacred—as the screen flickered between images of Jason Todd then and Red Hood. Red Hood's mask stared back like a mirror that Bruce had long avoided.

But not anymore.

Bruce stepped away from the chair, his cape trailing slightly behind him as he walked over to the central platform. His hands were already moving—pulling up surveillance footage, recent crime scene data, known weapons caches in Gotham, old safe houses, League intel files. The Batcomputer whirred to life, processing as fast as he was thinking.

He needed a plan.

A pattern.

Something to anticipate Jason's next move before he pushed things past the point of no return.

"Jason's not just attacking criminals," Bruce muttered as if thinking aloud. "He's making statements. Leaving clues. The crowbar on the docks, the coordinated hit on Sionis' men... He's targeting our enemies—but not like we would. He wants fear. Shock."

"If he truly is Jason, then he wants you to notice," Alfred added pointedly. "Every act so far has been tailor-made to send a message. Not to the city. To you, and to Sionis, Master Bruce."

Bruce's jaw tightened.

"That's why we have to stay ahead of him," he replied, voice cool, almost methodical now. "If he's using League tactics, he'll have fallback routes. Habits. I need to revisit his old Robin patrol maps and cross-reference them with our current threat activity. He's likely operating from somewhere familiar—somewhere personal."

Damian stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice cutting in sharp. "Then I want in."

Bruce turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. "No."

Damian frowned. "Mother said Jason was dead or thought he was. And we have no confirmation or any evidence that proves he is actually the Red Hood." He stepped forward.

"You just said it yourself—he's one of the most dangerous threats Gotham's faced. You'll need backup."

"I said no," Bruce repeated. "This isn't a game. Jason doesn't hold back. You heard what you just said about him, Damian. You wouldn't survive that fight."

Damian's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So what? I'm just supposed to sit this out while he parades around with your symbol, twisting it into some weapon for his crusade?"

Bruce didn't answer.

"Don't forget," Damian added bitterly, "he's not the only one trained by the League. I know how he thinks too."

Bruce stepped forward, tone cold. "He was trained by Ra's personally. Fought Deathstroke. He's lived through death. You haven't. That makes all the difference."

The tension hung thick in the air.

But then, Alfred stepped forward—his voice gentler but more cutting than either of theirs.

"Forgive me, sirs. But this has gone far enough."

Both Wayne men paused.

Alfred walked to Bruce's side, not with judgment—but a heaviness in his posture that silenced them both. His gaze was on Bruce, steady and filled with something deeper than frustration. It was weariness… and heartbreak.

"You're treating this like a mission. Another file. Another criminal to map out, corner, and clean up. But Jason isn't Clayface. He isn't Riddler. He's not even Slade. He's your son."

Bruce didn't flinch—but he also didn't argue.

"You're walking headlong into a fight," Alfred continued, "but you haven't taken a moment to acknowledge what's really happening. That boy you took in—the one who used to sneak cookies from the pantry when he thought I wasn't looking—he's not just Red Hood. He's Jason."

Bruce's expression was unreadable, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with each breath.

"I know who he is," he said at last, voice low. "And that's the problem."

"No, sir," Alfred replied. "The problem is that you've already started mourning him again—only this time, while he's still alive."

That struck something deep.

Damian, now quiet, looked between the two of them, his earlier anger starting to fade beneath a more complicated emotion—confusion. Maybe even guilt.

Alfred stepped away, moving to the console and slowly sitting in the chair Bruce had just left.

"You built this place to fight crime," he said softly, gesturing around them, "but sometimes… sometimes what we're up against isn't a villain. Sometimes, it's family. And I fear this is the kind of battle that can't be won with strategy and brute force."

Bruce looked up at the screen again.

On the left, Jason's eyes—young, defiant, alive.

On the right, the blank mask of Red Hood—silent, armored, concealing everything.

He exhaled through his nose and whispered, almost to himself, "Then I'll have to find another way."

Alfred rose again. "Find a way that doesn't break him further—or destroy what's left of you in the process."

No one said anything after that.

Damian stepped back into the shadows, his mind already racing with thoughts he couldn't fully voice. Alfred turned away, heading toward the elevator in silence, hands once again clasped behind his back.

And Bruce stood still, beneath the pale glow of the monitors—haunted, calculating, grieving—and finally, beginning to accept; The mission had changed.

As much as it pulled on his heart strings, it wasn't just about stopping Red Hood. It has become a mission to saving Jason Todd.


- - -

I spent the entire day holed up in a scrapyard, the kind of place where the smell of rust clings to your lungs and the air hums with the faint echo of old metal groaning in the wind.

Rows of twisted steel and gutted cars stretched like a graveyard for machines, their jagged edges catching the last rays of daylight. It's not exactly a glamorous training ground, but it works.

Between the stacks of crushed sedans and the carcasses of buses, I pushed myself—speed drills, strength tests, anything to get a read on what my body can do.

Here's the thing that messes with me; I just...know how to do this stuff. Regulating my strength, timing my strikes, controlling my balance—it all feels second nature. But I have zero recollection of actually learning any of it. No images. No flashes. Nothing from before I became the Hood.

Which means either my body remembers what my mind doesn't… or someone, somewhere, decided I didn't need to know how I got here.
And that thought—it sticks. Because there's this gaping black hole where three years of my life should be. Three years gone. Vanished. I have no idea where I was, what I was doing, or who the hell I even was during that time.

Yeah. Amnesia. It's a real bitch. She packs up the most important bits of your life, walks right out the door, and never even bothers leaving a forwarding address. Kind of like your ex-girlfriend who "accidentally" took your favorite sweatshirt home and mysteriously never brought it back.

And here's the kicker—it's not even my first time dealing with this crap. I remember waking up at the League once, staring at people I didn't know, not even aware of my own name or why the hell I was there. My mind was a blank slate, and they just… filled it how they saw fit.

Having it happen again? Yeah, it's wild. And annoying. And dangerous. But I can't afford to sit in the corner piecing together my sob story, no matter how much it claws at me in the quiet moments. If I let it, it'll eat me alive.

Besides, right now I've got more important things to focus on—like the fact that I just sent a car skidding sideways and into a dead stop with a single kick from my boots.

The sound echoed through the scrapyard, metal screaming and glass shattering as the vehicle lurched against a pile of junked parts. The vibrations traveled up my leg like a slow, satisfying reminder of what I'm capable of. I'm starting to think my strength might rival Deathstroke's… maybe even surpass he's.

It's the same raw power I felt that night I kicked the door off my Mustang while dodging Bruce. I didn't stop to think about how insane it was. I just did it, like it was the most natural reaction in the world. Only later did it hit me; normal people don't tear cars apart mid-escape without breaking a sweat.

So do I need those missing three years back? Yeah. I want them. I want to know what I've been doing, where I've been, and—most of all—who pulled me out of the soul-claiming waters of the China Sea.

Those questions hang in the back of my mind every damn day, like a ticking clock I can't read. But I've got no clues. Not even a fragment to work from.

I can't control the amnesia. But I can control what I do with the time I have now—and that's where things get interesting. Control. Such a simple word, but men kill for it, manipulate for it. Doesn't matter if it's control over a person, a city, or an entire system.

Bruce is no exception, no matter what image he likes to project. He thrives on control. He controls Gotham's criminals through fear, making them think twice before stepping out of line. They see the Bat, and their hearts stop for just long enough to change their plans.

Me? I'm aiming for something different. I want criminals to breathe easier at dawn because they survived another night without running into me. I want the ones who do run into me to pray for Batman to show up—because compared to me, he's mercy.

And to get that level of control in Gotham, Black Mask has to go. But not yet. Not until he delivers Joker to me on a silver platter.

The thought of the Joker… it lights something in me. I won't lie, the anticipation borders on obsessive. Might even sound like a twisted fetish if I said it out loud, but I don't care. Bruce failed me, and he's been failing this city for decades. So I'm going to break his heart in the process of fixing what he never could.

That means playing it smart with Roman Sionis. Steering him toward Joker without tipping my hand. I've been keeping the pressure on him, subtle but relentless.

Every move I make pushes him closer to giving me what I want. Like a row of dominoes, each action knocks over the next. I set them all up the day I became his personal nightmare, and now all I have to do is keep them falling.

I bet when Roman closes his eyes at night, he sees the red gleam of my helmet and wakes up sweating. They say everyone wakes from their nightmares eventually, but I'm not planning to give him the chance. He'll die in this one.
He hasn't answered my last move yet. His reaction—which his paranoid ass would give—will dictate my next step. Eventually, there'll be a face-to-face. I can already picture it. The arrogant tilt of his chin replaced by wide-eyed panic. The desperation in his voice as he begs for a life that's already over.

And I have to admit… I'm going to enjoy every damn second of it.

- - -

[Gotham City Police Department, late evening]

The hum of the overhead lights mixed with the faint scent of burnt coffee and damp paper files that had seen far too many years in storage. Rain tapped lazily against the tall windows of Commissioner Gordon's office, but inside, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

"What the hell do you mean we still don't have a single lead on the Hood?" Gordon's voice cut through the low murmur in the room, his tone not needing volume to carry the weight of frustration. He leaned forward over his desk, hands flat against the scattered case files, glaring at the assembled detectives like they were raw recruits who'd just botched a basic bust.

His gaze locked on the lead investigator. "Is the GCPD really that bad at doing its job? Our jobs." His voice sharpened. "That one wasn't rhetorical, Detective Madina."

Madina swallowed, adjusting the crease in his jacket as though that would help deflect Gordon's glare. "Sir, it's not that we're bad at our jobs. He's just… good at getting away clean."

"He sure is," Detective Ramireuze said from his spot by the window, his chair tipped back slightly. "We've started thinking of it as a talent. He's so sneaky, so precise, you could almost put him on Batman's level." There was an unspoken admiration in his voice, though he quickly masked it behind a shrug.

Detective Carter, who had been tapping his pen against his notepad, finally spoke up. "Maybe he was trained by him. The only images we've got show that bat symbol on his chest. That can't be a coincidence."

"That could be a possibility," Gordon admitted, his tone softening only slightly. "But right now, all we have is a blurry photo and that symbol. It's not enough to back up a theory."

Madina leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Maybe Batman was the teacher, and Red Hood's the student who went rogue. He kills, and we all know Batman doesn't cross that line."

Gordon grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been annoyance. "Maybe. But if that's the case, we'd have known about him the same way we know about the others. Red Hood just… appeared. No warning. No history."

Another stack of photos was spread across the table—Roman Sionis, his Black Mask persona glaring from a mugshot; Big Lou; Sophia Falcone.

Madina picked up Roman's picture and pinned it to the corkboard along with the others, adding shots of crime scenes—blown-out warehouses, torched drug houses, and a handful of back-alley massacres.

None of the lines on the board connected directly to Red Hood's single photo at the top. That image, pulled from a security cam near the Bertinellis' territory, was the only clear visual they had of him—a red helmet under dim streetlights, shoulders squared like he owned the night.

The only other recurring clue was the crowbar. It kept showing up at his crime scenes, sometimes slick with blood, sometimes sticking out of a body, and other times just resting like a calling card beside the bodies. The pattern was unmistakable, even if no one wanted to put it into words.

"We think he's taken control over certain parts of Gotham's underground drug trade," Madina said, sliding his finger across a map with red ink circles marking specific districts. "Some drug dealers operate under his protection now. It's not official, but it's clear enough if you talk to the right people."

Progress was slow—painfully slow. The Red Hood case was less an investigation and more a series of grim interruptions. Every few days, a new body would drop, each kill meticulous and violent, each scene unmistakably his handiwork.
And the GCPD had more than just him to worry about. The Falcones and Maronis had been circling each other for months, their feud bloody but strangely restrained.

Everyone in the room knew that kind of tension should have escalated to all-out war by now. The fact it hadn't? That was its own kind of mystery.
But Gordon was almost certain—Red Hood was the reason.

Outside the commissioner's office, in the bullpen, Deputy Valdez leaned toward the officer beside him. "Any idea why they all look like they're about to chew glass in there?"
The other officer smirked without looking up from his paperwork.

"You're new, so I'll clue you in. That's the division tasked with bringing in Red Hood and monitoring shifts in the underworld. They've got the most stressful caseload in the building."

Valdez raised a brow. "Oh, I've heard of him. Gotham's new headache. Doesn't go after civilians but makes criminals disappear if they step out of line. Ghosts in and out of places. Never seen."

"Not entirely," the officer said. "We know he wears that red helmet. That's about it."
Valdez glanced toward the investigation board across the bullpen. "Has anyone here actually seen him?"

"Nope. Not a single officer sighting. Not in person."

Valdez gave a short, humorless laugh. "So we've got a guy who's suspected in a dozen murders, keeps his face hidden, and hasn't touched a single innocent life. Honestly… maybe we should leave him alone. Sounds like he's doing some of our work for us."

Another deputy, leaning back in his chair with a steaming mug of coffee, joined in. "No one sane wants to get close to that guy. You've seen what's left of the thugs he's dealt with."
Valdez shook his head. "Gotham never runs out of crazies."

"And they never run out of bodies," the coffee drinker said, raising his mug before taking a sip.
Inside Gordon's office, the rain picked up against the windows. No one spoke for a long moment. The Red Hood was no longer just a name in a file.

He had become a presence, an invisible current running beneath Gotham's streets, pulling at a faction of the city's balance of power. And whether the GCPD liked it or not, he was changing the rules.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Roman Sionis' POV]

Red Hood has been like a stubborn piece of gum welded under the sole of my shoe—no matter how hard I scrape, burn, or drag it against the pavement, it sticks.

He's that one roach that refuses to be crushed, the kind that vanishes when you try to stomp it but pops back up right in the middle of your dinner table with that smug little twitch of its feelers.

I've considered putting a bounty on the bastard's head—hell, I've wanted to for months—but I already paid top dollar for the Fearsome Hand of fucking Four.

They're supposed to be professional assasins, specialists in delivering very final results. They better earn their fucking pay soon, because I'm already losing what little patience I had left… and I was born with about a midget-sized portion to begin with.

So far, we know he's been running this dirty little racket—offering "protection" to certain bottom-feeding scoundrels who still move my product but also pay him a cut.

My own goddamn merchandise, feeding that pig, lining his pockets. And these weasels? They grin in my face while they hand him my money.

But maybe—just maybe—it's not all bad. If I squint, I can see an opportunity in it. If he's touching my supply, then he's reaching into my territory, which means I can bait him.

Not with the same tricks I've used before—those haven't worked. He's slipperier than a bottom-feeding catfish dipped in motor oil. Every time I think I've got a line on him, he's gone before I can even yank the hook.

So now? I'm switching tactics. A better bait. A proper trap. Something that ends with me standing over his body—or what's left of it.

The Hand of Four better do their part and bring him to me. From the very start, my intention was simple; I wanted his head. And because I've had to endure this prolonged irritation, I'd originally thought it poetic to have him alive first—alive so I could make him feel the price of going against me.

I wanted to peel the arrogance off him layer by layer. Cut his tongue out. Mount his helmeted head on a stake right where everyone could see it. A message carved in blood and carcass: This is what happens to cocky bastards who forget who runs this city.

But now? Now nothing would make me happier than seeing him dead in the street.

"Perhaps I was being delicate before," I say, leaning back in my chair and letting the words drip like oil. "I want this man dead."

"When I say dead," I go on, jabbing a finger at Ms. Li like the tip of a blade, "I mean dead dead. Beaten, broken—brain matter gushing out his head, kind of dead."

Li, standing on the other side of my desk, doesn't flinch. Her expression is cool, unreadable, but there's a flicker in her eyes that tells me she knows I'm not exaggerating.

"Understood. We'll be taking further precautions at every transaction—" she begins.

I wave her words away like cigarette smoke I can't be bothered with. "Forget that. We're done playing defense—now we go on the attack. He wants a game? Fine. We play dirty. Hit his operations hard, make it ugly enough that he's forced to crawl out of his hole to stop us. And when he does…" I let a thin smile creep in. "…we'll have a party ready just for him."

Li's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. "Understood."

"Good. Those guns you lined up? I want the best, and I want them in place before the week's out. And make sure their delivery is cleaner than the last batch." My voice hardens as I lean forward, eyes locked on hers. "Now… get to it."

She nods once, smooth and sharp, and turns to leave. My office door closes behind her with a soft click, but the air still feels heavy—like the smell of gasoline just before the match drops.

This time, Red Hood won't slip away.


- - -


That evening, the eastern district was alive in the way only a Friday night in Gotham could be. The low hum of conversation, the clink of glassware, the occasional burst of laughter — all blending into the warm haze of neon lights spilling across rain-slick streets. Inside one of the district's bars, men and women unwound over drinks, letting the music and dim amber glow soothe the stress of the day. It was the kind of night that should've stayed peaceful.

It didn't.

Without warning, engines roared in the distance, growing louder, meaner—until a black vehicle plowed through the bar's glass entrance in a screech of tires and a shower of broken shards. Black Mask's men spilled inside in a surge of boots, leather, and cold metal. The music died instantly. Fear replaced laughter as they shot at the place, taking down the security before they could even make a move.

One of the armed men—tall, shoulders squared, a predator's walk—headed straight for the bar. The bartender, frozen mid-polish of a glass, tried to stand his ground despite the tremor in his voice.

"You can't do this," he said, eyes flicking between the barrel of the man's gun and the chaos unfolding behind him.

The thug didn't slow. He grabbed the bartender by the collar, yanking him over the counter and slamming him to the floor with bone-jarring force. Without breaking eye contact, he snatched a bottle from the counter, smashed it across his knee with a sharp crack, and let the jagged edges glint under the flickering overhead light.

"And why not?" His tone was almost amused.

The bartender's wince came with a stifled cry. "Be… cause we're protected by the Red Hood."

The thug's grin widened. "We're counting on that. Now—where's your boss?"

"I have no idea where he might—"

The gun's handle cracked against his cheek, splitting skin, drawing blood. A click followed as the weapon's hammer was cocked.

"I swear," the bartender stammered, blood pooling at his lip, "I don't know. But I think he's in his office upstairs."

"See? That wasn't so hard." Another blow to the head—this one heavy enough to drop him into unconsciousness, and the man gestured for three of his crew to follow.

They took the stairs two at a time, stopping before Raymond's office door. It didn't open. A shove confirmed it jammed or blocked. Two men stepped forward, stomping hard in unison. The door gave halfway, revealing a desk wedged behind it. They forced it further, but the room was empty.

"He ain't here," one called.

The leader crossed to the window. Cloths knotted into a makeshift rope dangled outside. His gaze followed it down, catching sight of a man in a suit sprinting toward a parked car.

"The bastard went out the window— heading for his car!"

Without hesitation, the thug swung a leg over the sill and slid down the rope, leather gloves burning faintly against the fabric. The others followed, boots thudding against the wet pavement.

The leader already had his phone to his ear. "Charle, bring the van around the back. Now."

They gave chase, calling out half-hearted threats. "Stop running or you'll get shot!" No one pulled a trigger—not yet. Too many witnesses beyond the current one at the bar could mean cops, and cops meant trouble.

Raymond, panic etched across his face, reached his car and shoved the key into the ignition. His hands shook but he fired a round through the window toward his pursuers. The pop of gunfire tore through the night, shattering the uneasy restraint of silence.

Return shots whistled past as he ducked low, jamming the gas pedal. But as he rounded the corner, a van slammed into his car's side with a brutal crunch of metal.

The impact threw him forward into the steering wheel. Airbags exploded, the acrid smell of propellant filling the cabin. His vision swam, a warm trickle of blood running from his hairline.

The engine coughed and failed.

A window rolled down. The getaway driver leaned out with a gun trained on him. Footsteps pounded closer as the rest of the crew closed in, weapons ready.

"Drop your weapon," the leader barked, the muzzle of his pistol steady.

"You heard him," another thug added. "Hands in the air."

"And get out of the car. Slowly," a third chimed in.

Raymond blinked at them, deadpan even through the pain. "Which is it? Drop the gun, hands up, or step out? I'm not great at multi-tasking."

One thug sneered, pressing cold steel to Raymond's temple. "Motherfucker, you think you're funny?"

The car door opened. Raymond's gun was snatched from his grip, followed by a vicious blow to the back of his head that made the world blur again. A kick to the back of his knee dropped him to the pavement.

"You have your orders. Put him in the van. Rough him up nice and good," the leader ordered, walking away without so much as a glance back.

They dragged him by the arms, tossing him into the van like a sack. One thug admired his watch. "Nice piece."

"Looks expensive," another said, unclasping Raymond's gold chain and watch.

"That's because it is," Raymond shot back, though his defiance earned him another smack from a gun barrel, splitting his lip wider.

They stripped him down to his underwear, hauling him to a desolate, open lot that smelled faintly of oil and rust. The ground was hard-packed dirt, the silence broken only by the faint drip of water from somewhere unseen.

They shoved him from the van, sending him sprawling. His wrist hit wrong — a sharp jolt of agony made him hiss through clenched teeth.

"You sons of bitches," he spat, rage in his eyes.

The words were mocked back at him before the first kick landed. They pummeled him—fists, boots, laughter sharp in the cold air.

"Do you know who I am?" Raymond managed between blows, voice still carrying a shred of authority.

"Of course we do," one replied, slamming a punch into his gut. "You're Raymond Lemieux, king of the local drug trade." A boot followed, snapping his head to the side.

"I am the drug trade," Raymond growled.

"You're cocky, I'll give you that." One thug fetched a gallon of petrol from a stash nearby.

Raymond's eyes narrowed. "If you know who I am, you know who's got my back."

"Oh, we know. And he pissed off someone with a lot of power." A smile stretched across the man's face. "We want you to pass along a message."

The cap twisted off the gallon. The reek of gasoline hit hard as it splashed over Raymond's skin, soaking him in icy wetness.

"No—stop! I can pay you! Whatever you want!" His words were frantic now, but ignored.

Death by fire was one of the most excruciating ways to go out, and Raymond wasn't a fan of being cooked medium rare or crispy. Probably burnt to his bones.

A lighter clicked open. The flame danced in the dark. "Say your prayers," the thug said, eyes glinting.

Raymond's breath came fast. "Don't. Please."

"Tell Red Hood Black Mask said hi when you see him in hell." The lighter arced lazily into the air.

Two gunshots cracked, sharp and close. The lighter clattered to the ground, unlit. One thug collapsed, a red mist where his skull had been.

The second froze. A heavy thud landed on the van's roof—boots, solid and certain.

"If you prayed, I guess God sent me to save your ass, Ray-Ray," a voice drawled through the modulated filter of the Red Hood's helmet.

Raymond exhaled shakily, relief flooding his expression.

Red Hood looked past him to the remaining thug. "I hear you've got a message for me."

The man didn't answer. Fear etched in his eyes as he took off and ran. A glance at the van's driver—slumped over with a bullet hole in his temple—made his legs churn faster.

Red Hood hopped down, ready to chase him, maybe drag him back for Raymond's revenge. But a voice cut through the night.

"You already know the message. We're here to deliver it."

He turned—and was met with movement. A slim, armored figure, grey plating gleaming, looking like Cyrax from Mortal Kombat without his dreadlock of cables, he slid in like a phantom and kicked him hard enough to launch him onto the van's hood.

Three more dropped in. One carried twin glowing swords, half her face masked, eyes sharp with intent. Another spun a staff with crackling ends. The last was massive, empty-handed, his bulk promising raw mechanical strength.

The Fearsome Hand of Four. All wearing suits of armor which enhanced their strength and movements.

"You'd better get out of here, Ray," Red Hood called.

Raymond didn't hesitate. He ran.

"I guess your boss finally noticed me," Red Hood said, tilting his head in defiance. "If he's sending you four, he really wants me gone."

The smirk was invisible under the helmet — but they could feel it.

Then they charged.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason stood in the alley, boxed in on all sides. Four of Black Mask's hired killers circled him, moving like they'd already written his obituary. Neon light flickered across their armor, each plate humming like they'd walked straight out of some cheap sci-fi flick.

He shifted his stance, crowbar loose in his grip, helmet flicking from one faceplate to the next.

The woman made the first move. Blades lit up in her hands, glowing like twin lightsabers. She slashed across his torso, fast and clean. Jason stepped back, but before his boots even hit steady ground, the staff-guy was already rushing from behind.

The staff hissed, both ends igniting into glowing blades. Jason cocked his head and muttered, "Great."

He turned just in time to see the woman leap again, blades crossed into an X, aiming to carve him in two. Too close to dodge clean. He flipped back, but the staff came stabbing up mid-air to skewer him.

For a second, they thought they had him. Weeks of chasing the Red Hood, and this was how it ended. But Jason wasn't prey.

He twisted in the air, crowbar out, metal crashing against the staff with a sharp crack. Sparks scattered, and the moment his boots hit pavement, he drove a steel-toed kick into the guy's chest. The assassin flew backward and hit the wall so hard the concrete cratered.

No time to breathe. The brute stormed in, all muscle and armor, throwing a punch that could liquefy organs. Jason darted sideways, shoved off the wall with his forearm plate, and launched himself high into the air. Both pistols cleared their holsters before gravity could catch him.

Muzzle flashes lit up the alley as he rained bullets down. Sparks bounced off the brute's armor like fireworks. Not even a dent.

Jason clicked his tongue. "Now that's just fucking annoying."

He'd tested the armor. It was solid. Too solid. Which meant close combat was the only answer, and he wasn't exactly thrilled about that.

Then a glow caught his side eye. The fourth one, lean and quiet, lens glowing bright in the middle of his forehead. Jason's gut twisted.

"Fuck." He muttered, as gravity did it's job to pull him down.

The blast tore through the air. Jason ripped his sword free, the League-forged metal gleaming as it caught the shot. He angled it just right, deflecting the beam into the brute's shoulder. The big guy grunted, sparks flying, but he didn't go down.

The hit rattled Jason's arm, shoved him off balance. He snapped a grapple, line whipping out, and dragged himself back down hard onto the pavement. Boots slid across wet asphalt as he steadied.

But the circle was back on him. The instant he landed, another laser fired. He rolled, cutting sharp toward the staff and blade-users. He knew the cyclops bastard wouldn't risk hitting his own team.

Brute and laser-boy hung back. The other two pressed in, weapons carving arcs through the dark.

Jason chuckled under his helmet. "You four look less like assassins and more like a busted-up Ninja Turtle squad." He raised his crowbar in one hand, sword in the other.

And he wasn't wrong. Twin blades. Tech staff. Laser head. Tank in armor. All moving in sync, like a freak-show unit.

They didn't laugh. They attacked.

Staff lashed from the left, twin blades hacked from the right. Jason crossed his weapons, sparks flying as steel smashed against energy. His arms shook, boots digging cracks into the pavement.

He shoved hard, knocking the staff wide, and slammed his crowbar into the guy's ribs. The hit landed solid, a dull crunch under the armor.

The woman cut in fast, relentless. Her blades became a blur, carving at him over and over, ringing against steel. Jason blocked what he could, every clang vibrating through his arms. She grinned under her mask, sure she had him.

"You've put on a decent show," she said between strikes. "But this is the end. Stop struggling and accept that the odds are far beyond you."

Jason laughed through his teeth. "Yeah… nah. Odds are kind of my thing."

That's when the glow hit his vision again—the cyclops charging from behind. Jason saw it too late. Blades in front. Laser at his back. No room to breathe.

He dropped sideways, fast and low. The woman's blade still nicked him, carving across his shoulder. Hot blood spread under the armor, but he ignored it.

She lifted both blades for the finisher, confident he was hers. Jason didn't wait. He crowded in close, grabbed her wrist, and smashed his elbow into her forehead. Bone cracked under the hit.

Jason yanked her down by the ponytail and drove his helmet into her skull. The crunch was sickening. She went slack in his grip.

He didn't even blink. He spun, hurled her body like dead weight straight into the cyclops charging in. They smashed together into a tangled heap on the ground. The glowing lens sputtered out, flickering weak.

The circle was broken as Jason straightened, sword and crowbar dripping with the blood which trickled down his shoulder. If not for his helmet, his slow but heavy breath would have fogged the cold night air.

And he wasn't even close to finished.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

The hulking bastard stood across from me with a goddamn van raised over his head like it was nothing more than a mini fridge. His teeth bared, his voice carrying that smug confidence only idiots had when they thought size alone made them untouchable.

"You might be one tough bastard," he growled, muscles bulging as steel groaned in his grip, "but you can't possibly win against us."
And then he threw the van.

The air screamed as a couple tons of metal came flying my way. My body moved before my brain caught up—I hit the ground in a dive, shoulder rolling hard across cracked concrete, sparks flying as the van smashed behind me. The explosion of impact rattled the street. Shattered glass and twisted metal rained down like hell's confetti.

I came up on one knee, gun-hand twitching instinctively before I stopped myself. No—ammo wouldn't matter against this slab of iron and meat. And sure enough, the brute was already charging me, a rhino in heat, his footsteps shaking the pavement.

"Jesus Christ…" I muttered, pulling from my belt. My fingers found the smooth surface of magnetic explosive disks. Cute little toys—Bruce taught me the craftsmanship, but I'd made them my own. I hurled three fast, each sticking with a metallic clack against his armored chest and shoulders.

The charges blew with a crack of light and thunder. Smoke ripped upward, swallowing him in a black shroud.

For a moment, I thought maybe that was enough. That maybe for once, something would go my way in this fight.

Then he stumbled out, smoking but still standing. Barely even scorched.
"Of course," I hissed, because why the hell would anything ever be easy.

I didn't back down. I never back down. I sprinted forward instead, boots slamming the ground, body screaming with adrenaline. I leapt high, fist cocked, and drove it into his faceplate. The force sent him staggering, his head jerking to the side with a metallic crack.

Didn't drop him. But it rocked him.

And that was all I needed.

I kept moving, fists flying. Blow after blow after blow, fast and vicious. He swung back, wide arcs that could have taken my head clean off if I let even one connect. But I slipped them, weaving between his arms, my strikes drilling against his jawline, throat, visor.

Behind him, I caught sight of the other three—reforming their circle. The "Fearsome Hand of Four." Cute name. Organized assassins, trained killers. I'd fought armies nastier than them, but still, the numbers game wasn't in my favor. They were lining up to close in, and if they boxed me in… well, I wouldn't walk away.

The brute roared, his arm swinging like a wrecking ball. I ducked low, my hand snapping to my back, and this time I didn't hold back as my sword cleared its sheath with a hiss.
One clean motion.

I rose with it. Steel flashed, bright and merciless, cutting through reinforced armor like it wasn't even there.

The blade sang, and his head separated clean from his body.

Blood gushed hot and heavy, spraying across my helmet's faceplate in a fine crimson mist. The headless corpse dropped to its knees with a hollow thud, collapsing forward, limbs twitching. The sound echoed too loud in the ruined alley.

From the rooftops, I could feel eyes on me.
Batman. I didn't need to see him to know he was there. Watching. Probably judging.

'What has Ra's turned you into?' I could practically hear it in his head. I didn't give a shit.

The other three froze for a heartbeat. I saw it in their eyes—even through the masks, they hadn't expected that. Four-on-one, armored, trained, with every advantage stacked on their side. And I'd just butchered one of them like it was nothing. I had to even the odds in my favour, maybe not even but at least give myself a bit more edge.

"You bastard," one of them spat. Their voices wavered. "Now you've done it."
Good. I wanted them angry. Anger made people sloppy.

They broke formation. Stupid move. Instead of coordinated strikes, they each lunged, desperate to be the one to put me down.

I slid my sword back into its sheath. They didn't deserve the blade. Not yet. I pulled my combat knife free, grip tight, the steel glinting under dim streetlights. In my other hand, I raised my crowbar—my favorite kind of poetry.

If I relied on the sword every fight, it'd own me. It'd whisper that I needed it. That was the kind of thinking that turned assassins into monsters. I wouldn't let myself become another Deathstroke. The knife and crowbar—that was enough.

The first to move was the woman with the twin blades. She crouched low, feline, her muscles coiled before she sprang. Her swords gleamed as she came in slashing for my throat.

I met her mid-air, crowbar clanging against her first strike. Sparks flew. My knife snapped upward in a precise jab, aiming for her face.
She twisted, head snapping to the side just in time. The blade skimmed her cheek instead of splitting her skull. Too close. Too damn close.
Her counter-swing came instantly, her second sword cutting toward my ribs. I wrenched my body sideways, free hand snapping back. The hilt of my knife cracked against her temple.

The blow wasn't clean enough to put her down, but it rattled her. She staggered, eyes blurring, footing lost.

And that's when I felt the other one at my back.
The staff-wielder. Silent, precise, like a true assassin. His weapon was a blur of steel with blades at both ends. He swung low, aiming for the tendons behind my knees. One slice there, and I'd be crippled.

I didn't think, I felt it. Legs bent, body shooting upward in a tight leap, the blades cutting air beneath my boots.

I twisted mid-air and saw him, already spinning his staff, rotating it so fast it became a deadly cyclone. The ends glowed, some kind of charge building with each motion. The blur looked like a model of an atom, blades orbiting around him, deadly as any nuclear core as he swung it in all directions—diagonally, vertically, and horizontally.

"Cute trick," I muttered.

He advanced, storm of blades ready to chew me apart. I hopped back, gaining space—but froze when I saw the glow behind me.
Cyclops. The bastard with the single glowing eye, charging his laser for a kill shot.
If I dodged back too far, I'd be fried. If I stayed in front, the staff would slice me open.

Cornered. So I did the only thing I could.
I stepped forward, knife snapping up. The blade met the spinning storm dead-on. For a split second, the clash screamed as my blade hindered his staff, steel against steel, sparks flying wild. His staff's momentum died, my blade biting deep enough to stall him.

His eye widened in disbelief. Nobody was supposed to be fast enough to stop that.

"Surprise," I growled.

Before he could react, my knee shot upward, slamming into his knee joint. I aimed to shatter it—but the bastard's armor was tougher than I thought. The impact lifted me off the ground instead of breaking him.

Bad trade.

The second my boots touched down, his staff lunged. He turned it into a spear, stabbing forward, double-ended and merciless.

I spun. Sidestep left—barely dodged the first. Pivot, duck low—the second stabbed through where my chest had been a half second ago.
He snarled, frustration bleeding through. His staff swept low this time, aiming to cut my legs right out from under me.

Not happening.

I jumped high, body curling mid-air, then snapped out. My leg whipped in a roundhouse kick, boot slamming into the side of his skull.

CRACK.

The hit lifted him off his feet, sent him flying backward as his body smashed through a concrete wall with a boom of dust and stone.
My boots hit ground hard. And that's when I realized the worst part—kicking him out of the way left me exposed.

Cyclops was standing steady now, laser eye fully charged, glowing white-hot like the center of a sun.

"Fuck."

The word left my mouth as the beam ripped free.


- - -

A/N:—

It felt good writing Jason's humor again in the midst of combat. Humor, in general, is often a way for people to shield themselves from the weight of their own struggles—a momentary escape.

But with Jason, it's different. His humor carries a darker edge, a reflection of everything he's endured. It isn't meant to ease the pain so much as expose it, turning his wit into something unsettling, and uniquely his. That's what makes his humor an inseparable part of Red Hood's persona.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Faced with the blinding glare of a laser beam and the very real possibility of not being able to dodge in time, Jason didn't panic. His pulse didn't spike, his breath didn't hitch. He kept calm—stone cold calm—the kind you only learn after crawling through pits of hell. He's only reaction was from the realization thaf he had placed himself in a rough spot.

Like a trained gunslinger drawing at high noon, he reached for his grapple gun. His arm snapped up in a blur, the cable firing with a hiss as the hook clamped against a steel girder high above. Jason swung wide, his body cutting across the air just as the Cyclops assassin unleashed his blast.

The beam burned across the alley, trailing after him with a hungry glow. Jason felt the heat singe across his backplate before it sliced clean through the grapple line, severing his only lifeline, literally. The cord whipped back with a crack, leaving him weightless in open air.

Mid-fall, with gravity dragging him down and the assassin already charging for another shot, Jason realized there was no quick fix. His sword couldn't block a blast like this—it wasn't a focused shot anymore, but a charged wave, a sweeping radius of pure destruction. Attempting to deflect it would've been suicide.

So what now?

That was the thought that stabbed into the back of his mind as his conscious self had no time to strategize. The beam was already gathering, the assassin's mechanical eye glowing like the sun about to break over the horizon. Jason was falling straight into it, no cover, no angle.

Below, the other assassins smirked beneath their masks. They thought it was over. Red Hood, caught mid-air, about to be erased. A couple more seconds and their job would be done.

They thought wrong.

Jason's hand darted to his belt. His fingers closed around three smoke pellets, and without hesitation, he smashed them against the wall as he fell past it. The spheres cracked open, and thick smoke exploded outward, swallowing the space in a heavy shroud.

The Cyclops assassin didn't flinch. He didn't need to. Jason had to land beneath the smoke—that much was obvious. He'd be waiting.
But Jason wasn't about to do the obvious.
He drove his combat knife into the wall, the steel screeching as sparks spat out. The friction slowed his fall, his boots braced against the brick as he pushed off. Instead of dropping straight down through the smoke like a sitting duck, he propelled himself sideways, kicking hard against the surface to launch himself out of the shroud at an unexpected angle.

The assassin's glowing eye followed downward, expecting the red helmet to emerge. Jason broke upward instead. And before the cyclops could even process the misdirection, Jason had already hurled his crowbar with all the strength in his body.

It cut through the air like a bullet, a spinning blur of steel. The weapon pierced directly into the glowing lens of the assassin's eye. There was no time to dodge, no chance to react.

The crowbar punched through the mechanism and into his skull, detonating the unstable charge inside. The eye flared, then ruptured in a burst of molten fire. The explosion tore upward, shredding the assassin from the chest up. His torso vanished in a spray of sparks and smoke, leaving nothing but a mangled lower half collapsing onto the ground.

The two remaining assassins—the dual-wielder and the one armed with the double-edged lance—froze in shock. They had expected Red Hood to die. Instead, he had just dismembered their teammate in one brutal, improvised counter.
Even Batman, who prided himself on being unshakable, lowered his binoculars for a brief moment. He had watched Jason's every move, calculating, cataloguing—but this? He needed to pause. To reassess.

The precision. The speed. The sheer force it took to hurl a crowbar with enough power to puncture the plating and rupture an energy core. Jason had always been strong, always been ruthless, but this was something different. Something sharpened. Evolved.

He slid the binoculars back up. His eyes narrowed as he silently admitted; Jason Todd had become something he couldn't fully measure.

On the ground, Jason stood tall again, dusting off flakes of debris from his leather jacket as if nothing had happened. "That was a bit much, don't you think?" he muttered casually, his voice carrying just enough to reach the others. The taunt was deliberate, and it worked.

The woman's posture stiffened. Her rage leaked through the cracks of her calm. "It was supposed to be a simple extermination," she hissed, her voice sharp with venom. "I didn't expect this job to cost us this much."

Her comrade stepped forward, tightening his grip on the lance. "Black Mask will have to pay double for this mess."

Jason cocked his head, looking between them, his tone dry. "All that skill, all that power, and you're just guns for hire. Really makes you think."

Her glare sharpened as her blades ignited again, glowing brighter than before. "From what I hear, you're the same," she shot back.

Jason chuckled beneath his helmet, tilting it slightly. "Maybe. But I don't bark and wag my tail for a lunatic like Roman Sionis."

That landed. He could see it in her stance, the sudden twitch of her grip. Her blades flared with a furious light as bloodlust poured out of her. Her teammate mirrored her rage, his lance shifting as he prepared to flank.

Jason smirked inside the helmet. Ragebaiting. Classic. He had them rattled, emotions cracking through discipline. That was the moment he wanted—the second where anger made them predictable.

The tension spiked in the air, heavy enough to taste. The two assassins circled him, dripping with intent to kill, while Jason stood at their center, calm as stone. His muscles loose, his breathing steady. They thought they were about to corner him. He was already calculating the counter.

Then a shadow dropped between them. A fourth presence hit the ground with the weight of a predator.

Batman.

Jason glanced over his shoulder at the familiar silhouette. "Well, look who decided to join the party." His voice was mocking, but there was an edge beneath it—recognition, inevitability.
The female assassin shifted her stance, blades humming. "Black Mask said you two might be working together," she spat. "Looks like the bastard was right."

Batman gave her nothing. Not a word, not a twitch. He stood tall, cape draped like a shroud, his gaze drilling into her with an intensity that pressed down like gravity. His presence alone forced her to re-adjust, her confidence wavering for the first time that night.

She lunged, blades flashing, and the fight split into two.

Batman met her with nothing but his fists, slipping between her strikes. She slashed for his torso, but he dipped low, his counterpunch snapping upward into her jaw. The blow lifted her off her feet, but she twisted mid-air and came down swinging.

Her second blade screamed for his shoulder, aiming to sever limb from body, but he pivoted, letting the strike carve through nothing but cape. He answered with another strike, relentless, pressing her back with precision. She tried to overwhelm him, her dual blades a whirlwind, but every slash was met with evasion, every gap punished with brutal counters.

Step by step, she forced him backward—until his back bumped against Jason's.
Jason blocked the lance's strike with his combat knife, metal grinding against metal. Batman, without breaking rhythm, spoke low. "You knew I was watching you." His tone wasn't questioning. He was stating facts but also wanted confirmation.

"Of course I did," Jason shot back, teeth clenched as he shoved the lance aside. "Nothing goes down in Gotham without you or one of your merry crew sniffing it out."

The assassin's lance twisted, splitting at the midpoint. With a snap, the weapon became two individual blades, one aimed for Jason's ribs.
Jason jerked aside, but not fast enough. Steel kissed flesh, slicing deep across his side. His armor slowed it, but blood still spilled, soaking through his gear. His body jerked from the sting, breath hissing between his teeth.

Grunting, Jason drove the steel of his heavy boots into the torso of his attacker. The same strike had sent the assassin flying across the ground earlier. But this time, the man braced himself better. His stance was rooted, armor absorbing most of the blow, and instead of collapsing, he rejoined the broken shaft of his weapon, snapping it back into place until the halves locked once again into a long, gleaming lance.

The assassin came at him with a savage diagonal slash. Jason tilted his body just enough, sidestepping with precision, the blade cutting air where his torso had been a split second earlier. The air whistled with the force of the strike.

Jason then held on to the body of his lance to restrict him, he tried to yank his weapon back, but Jason's grip on the weapon was immovable. His strength matched the assassin's—even though the other man's body was reinforced with technological armor.

"Speaking of, where are they? I don't see that little devil lurking around anywhere." Red Hood said to Batman, refering to NightWing and Robin.

Then his forehead crashed forward in a brutal headbutt. The crack rang out like a gunshot. Before the man could reel back, Jason's combat knife flashed, carving clean through armor plating and flesh alike. The assassin's arm hit the ground with a wet thud, the stump spurting as a guttural scream tore through his modulator.
The shriek was loud enough to draw eyes. Batman and the other assassin fighting him froze for a heartbeat, their heads snapping toward the sound.

What they saw was Jason driving his knife straight into the man's stomach. He twisted the blade, forcing it deeper, and kicked the back of his opponent's knee at the same time. The joint buckled, and the assassin collapsed onto one leg, gasping through the modulator. Jason didn't stop. He pivoted with a vicious roundhouse, his boot cracking across the man's helmet, snapping his head sideways before sending him sprawling to the ground.

"No!" Batman and the remaining assassin shouted in unison, but their voices collided with futility. Jason seized the fallen lance and, without hesitation, plunged the weapon down. The blade punched through armor and ribcage, spearing the assassin's heart. His body jerked violently, then stilled.

For a moment, the battlefield went quiet. The sound of combat hung suspended, broken only by the faint rattle of the dying man's breath before it gave out. The silence pressed in heavy, carrying the weight of something raw and irreversible.

Batman seized the brief pause, his fists moving like lightning as he struck the female assassin across the jaw, then struck the back of her neck, just below her hairline. She crumpled unconscious to the ground.

Jason turned, his shoulders rolling back as he faced Bruce. Behind the red mask, his eyes burned cold, but his voice cut with mocking dismissal. "Just be happy I at least let one live." Jason turned to Batman, not feeling the father and son reunion vibe at the moment.

"They are assassins," Jason added, as if that alone was justification, though he could see the look of judgment carved into Batman's face.
Bruce's reply was sharp, biting back without hesitation. "And what are you?"

Jason tilted his head, almost amused by the venom, before replying low and steady. "I'm tending to the wounds of Gotham… better than you ever did." He shifted his weight as though preparing to leave, unwilling to linger in the same space as Bruce. Staying too long meant risking anger boiling over—or worse, the pull of emotions he didn't want to feel around his father.

"You're stealing territory from Black Mask and killing anyone who gets in your way," Batman countered, his cape hanging heavy as he spoke.
Jason didn't flinch. "Better to control the infection than let it fester into cancer. I'm cutting out the rot so Gotham has a chance at healing—even if just by a mere fraction." His voice dropped as he said it, almost like a child trying to convince a father that he knew what he was doing, even when everything about his methods screamed otherwise.

Bruce's glare hardened. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

Jason's reply was blunt, his tone stripped of pretense. "I have a plan. And Black Mask is just a piece of the puzzle."

"A plan?" Bruce pressed. "What could you possibly gain by targeting Black Mask?" His tone was softer now, probing, searching for a glimpse of reason beneath his son's actions so far.

Jason paused, his voice cooling into something more dangerous. "Control." The word lingered heavy in the air. His posture stiffened, his presence shifting as if a darker side of him had stepped forward. In Bruce's eyes, Jason no longer looked like the lost son he had lost.

"You're becoming a crime lord," Batman said, his voice low but edged with conviction.
Jason didn't deny it. "Yes. You can't stop crime—that's what you never understood." His voice lowered, each word dropping like a stone into still water. "I am controlling it."

His presence darkened further. Even his stance carried the weight of something unyielding, someone who had walked too far down a path Bruce couldn't follow.

"You want to rule them by fear, as you've always done," Jason continued, his voice a quiet snarl. "But what happens when they aren't afraid of you? That's where I come in."

Bruce stepped forward, desperation cutting through the mask of the Bat. For the first time, his voice wasn't stern but pleading. "I know what happened to you, Jason. I know what the League did to you. Let me help you."

Jason immediately stepped back, widening the distance, his movements precise and deliberate. "It's too late." His voice wavered for just a moment before hardening again. "You had your chance." His words carried the weight of the Joker, of the vengeance Batman never took on his behalf.

Bruce's eyes narrowed with pain and confusion, but before he could answer, Jason raised his gloved hand, small black pellets glinting between his fingers.

"Until next time," Jason said, his voice heavy with finality.

The pellets hit the ground, bursting into a thick smoke that swallowed him whole. Batman didn't move. His muscles tensed as if preparing to give chase, but something in him refused. He stood rooted, watching the smoke coil and clear until nothing of Jason remained.

Only bodies surrounded him now. The male assassin, lifeless. The female, unconscious. And there, lying amidst the aftermath, was the lance—Jason's final mark before vanishing once more into Gotham's shadows.

Bruce's eyes lingered on the weapon, his jaw tightening as the air around him felt colder, heavier. His son had disappeared again, leaving nothing but questions, blood, and silence behind.

- - -

Early access to upcoming chapters? Support me on Patreon to read ahead!

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

After his dramatic exit, Jason found himself hunched over a cracked mirror, shirtless, needle in hand, patching himself up like he'd done a hundred times before. The mirror was propped awkwardly against a stack of crates, its edges stained with fingerprints and dust.

A single bulb overhead hummed and flickered, throwing harsh, uneven light over the room, making his reflection blur and sharpen with each twitch of the filament.

He threaded the curved needle into the split flesh along his torso, his movements steady, almost clinical. The gash pulled tight under the stitch, red skin puckering as he worked it closed. Blood welled at the edges, but Jason ignored it.

His expression didn't change, jaw set, eyes flat with focus. When he finished tying off the last knot, he moved seamlessly to the cut at his right shoulder, pulling the thread through with that same mechanical rhythm.

"Good strategy, Roman," Jason muttered under his breath, the words carrying no real admiration. His lips curled faintly, humorless, the kind of smirk that meant he saw the move for what it was; desperate. He clamped the thread with his teeth, tugged it tight, then sliced it clean with a blade. "Poor execution, though."

The sting of disinfectant burned across the stitched wounds as he dabbed with cotton, but Jason didn't flinch. Pain didn't bother him anymore—not the sharp burn of alcohol, not the slow throb of torn muscle.

The League of Assassins had stripped that weakness from him long ago. Pain was a constant in their training halls, not just tolerated but weaponized.

Every sparring match ended in cuts, bruises, broken bones. Blades sang past his throat, arrows carved across his arms, and if he failed to block, he bled. No medics, neither did they express sympathy. Just the expectation to stand back up and return to formation. Compared to that, Roman's "ambush" was child's play. A scratch.

He rolled gauze tight around his torso, layering it firmly across his stitched flesh, then pulled a black shirt off the chair. He slid it on with ease, letting the fabric settle over the bandages. The ache remained, sharp in flashes when he moved his arm too far, but Jason carried it without pause. Pain was his shadow, but it never slowed him.

At the table, he picked up a burner phone. The cheap thing felt fragile in his hand, it was the kind of device you could snap in half if you squeezed hard enough. He dialed a number without hesitation, leaning back into the chair, posture relaxed. His tone when the line clicked was calm, detached, like he wasn't sitting there bleeding under a dim bulb.

"Who the fuck is this?" came the irritated voice on the other end.

Jason's answer was smooth, dismissive, carrying authority in its casualness. "Being that your dealings with Black Mask as your supplier have officially come to an end, you're going to need a replacement. We can't have you out here dry, now can we—Ray Ray?" He didn't bother with introductions. Power was in skipping steps, in forcing the other man to play catch-up.
There was silence, not of confusion, but recognition. Raymond knew exactly who was calling.

"No. And it's tough getting product with good quality at a decent price here in Gotham," Raymond admitted at last. His voice dropped, carrying frustration and a trace of worry.
"Any ideas for a replacement?" Jason asked, his tone smooth, suggestive, like he already had the answer tucked away.

"No, I don't."

"Okay. I'll set up a meeting and call you soon. Stay ready." Jason cut the line before Raymond could add anything, the abrupt end punctuating his control over the conversation.

The phone clacked onto the table. Another step complete. Another thread pulled from Roman's empire. Jason leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes lingering on the faint reflection in the mirror across the room.

This was the war Black Mask never understood. Roman pictured attacks, assassins, bullets in the dark—quick, loud plays. But Jason was carving him apart in silence, pulling away his network one piece at a time.

Roman was bleeding and didn't even know how deep the cuts ran. Jason could almost see him now, pacing behind the tall windows of his office, mask tilted, paranoia chewing him alive. Always looking over his shoulder, never sure if tonight was the night Red Hood would finally show up to finish the job.

Jason smirked faintly.

He flexed his shoulder, testing the stitches. They pulled tight, a line of fire across the muscle, but he welcomed the reminder. Pain was proof of survival.

To Jason, pain was the memory of endurance. It was the difference between the boy who once died in a warehouse and the man now tearing Black Mask's empire apart.

His gaze hardened on the mirror. The Red Hood stared back. The war wasn't about bullets or blades anymore—it was about pressure, patience, and precision. And Roman was already cracking.

- - -

[Damian Wayne's POV]

If not for the fact that the decoy in the coffin had been crafted to look exactly like Jason, down to the scar patterns and bone structure, I might never have believed it was truly my brother who had returned. My brother who now walked the streets of Gotham as the Red Hood.

Yes, his fighting style carried familiar echoes of Jason—his agility, the stance, the way he moved into a strike that night during the chase. But his speed… that was new. Jason never had that kind of speed before. According to father, not when he was Robin.

And definitely not when he trained with grandfather. This was something else, it unsettled me more than I'd like to admit.
The manor has been gloomy all week, the air thick with silence. Father has been brooding in his study more than usual, his presence heavier, while Pennyworth moves quietly through the halls as if afraid the wrong sound might collapse the fragile walls of grief we've all built.

They're mourning him again—mourning Jason. Or maybe mourning what he's become. Yet still, no hard evidence tied him definitively to the Red Hood. Not until tonight.

Father returned from patrol already, though he insisted I stay inside the manor. Pennyworth enforced that command with irritating diligence. I don't know why Father didn't want me out in Gotham tonight, but I would have to ask him directly. I could disobey, of course. I am my own man, not a child to be caged. But—for reasons I can't entirely explain—I choose to remain on Pennyworth's good side.

When I descended into the Batcave, I could already hear Father and Pennyworth speaking. Their voices were low, hushed, but still carried in the vast chamber. Their words drifted between the echo of dripping water and the distant flutter of bats that stirred in the stalactites.

The glow from the main monitor illuminated the cave in a cold, sterile light. On its massive screen, side by side, were two images: a younger Jason Todd, full of life and arrogance, and the Red Hood, masked, hard-eyed, unrecognizable but for the ghost of familiarity in his posture.

On the console beneath the monitor laid a weapon. A double-edged lance, its blades stained with darkened blood, isolated from the rest of Father's evidence. The screen beside it was running a sequence—DNA matching. Even from a distance I could piece together what this meant. Father had Jason's blood. Proof.

My eyes narrowed. Where had he gotten it? From Red Hood directly? That meant Father had faced him alone. No wonder he kept me locked in the manor. Infuriating.

"I still find it hard to believe that he now walks such a path," Pennyworth said quietly, his voice trembling just enough for me to notice.

"I spoke to him," Father answered, his tone heavy. His hands rested on the console, his reflection fractured in the screen's light. He looked… not entirely himself.

"You did? How was he?" Pennyworth's voice carried equal parts fear and hope.

Father's pause was telling. "I do not know if it is the Lazarus Pit warping his mind, or if this was the result of Ra's shaping him into something I failed to see." His jaw clenched. "But he kills without hesitation. Without even a flicker of restraint."

Pennyworth's eyes widened slightly. Not at the fact Jason killed—that was already known. No, this was about something deeper. That Jason could kill even while standing before Bruce Wayne, the man who once raised him, who once saved him.

"Going to stand there eavesdropping all day, or are you planning on joining the conversation?" A sharp voice came from behind me. Irritatingly familiar. Grayson.

"I am not eavesdropping. They simply happened to be talking as I entered," I shot back coolly. I would not let him associate me with something so base.

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, sarcasm dripping, not even trying to mask it.

I kept walking, refusing to rise to his bait. "I do not have the time to indulge your antics." Still, I could practically feel the smug eye-roll he threw my way.

"Good. You're both here," Father said, drawing our attention as we climbed the short metal stairs toward the console.

Grayson's eyes went instantly to the lance. "Don't tell me he's using that now. A double-edged lance?" He leaned closer, examining it with too much casualness. "What is he, a weapons expert?" His voice carried no tremor, no unease, but I knew it was a mask.
"Not exactly," Father replied. He finally turned, his eyes grave. "But he was trained by the League."

"Yeah," Grayson muttered. "I heard your brother got training from Ra's and Lady Shiva." He glanced at me, waiting for a reaction, but I gave him none. I would not indulge his attempts at provoking me.

"Any insights into his skills?" Grayson pressed Father instead. "Because someone like that… someone forged by the League, he's a lot more dangerous than just another assassin."

Father leaned back in the chair, thoughtful. Troubled. "Jason wasn't only skilled. He was versatile. You remember how unpredictable he was as a child. Now imagine that unpredictability given focus. Refined with intent. Sharpened by years of League training." Grayson let out a low whistle. "Damn." His tone was light, but even he understood the danger in those words.

I didn't need to imagine. I had already fought Jason in sparring matches. I'd felt firsthand the edge he carried, the precision of his strikes, the weight behind every move. Even recalling it now sent goosebumps prickling across my skin. He didn't fight like a man anymore. He fought like a predator.

"That doesn't explain the lance," I cut in. My voice came out sharper than intended, but I didn't care. "Whoever it belonged to, they were skilled enough to wound him." And I needed to know just how strong he had become. Because if it came down to it, I might be the one forced to stop him.

Father couldn't do it. Grayson wouldn't. It might fall to me. And the truth was, part of me agreed with Jason's methods. Killing criminals permanently solved the problem. It was efficient. Logical. Gotham might finally breathe without them.

"This lance belonged to a member of the Fearsome Hand of Four," Father said grimly.
"Never heard of them." I crossed my arms. If no one explained, I'd have to waste my time in research. Better to make them tell me now. Grayson's glance told me he knew the name.

"They're assassins," he explained as he began tapping at the console, pulling up files from Father's archive. "They enhance their weapons and their own movements with tech. They've got a reputation—high success rates, high body counts. If Jason only walked away with a wound, he's lucky."

The monitor flickered with their data: images of four figures, their dossiers filled with kill counts and tactics. They looked dangerous. More than dangerous.

"He didn't get away," Father's voice cut in, sharp. Silence followed, tense, expectant.

"He killed three of them. The fourth only survived because of me."

"What?!" Grayson's reaction was immediate, incredulous. Pennyworth inhaled sharply, steadying himself, his expression restrained but his hands tightening behind his back.

"But you conversed. Did he give you anything? Any insight into why he's doing this? Why he chose to become Red Hood?"

Father's silence hung heavy. He looked away, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke. "At first, he sounded like Jason. But as our conversation went on… he changed. Cold. Detached." Something unspoken lingered in his tone.

"Sheesh, Bruce. You scolded him, didn't you?" Grayson muttered with a whistle, but Father ignored the jab and turned back to the screen.

"Black Mask sent the Hand to kill Red Hood. They failed—"

"And Jason's going to return the favor," Grayson finished.

Father gave a single nod.

For the second time in this whole bloody mess, we had a lead on Jason's next move. Keeping watch on Black Mask would inevitably draw him out.

But Father made it clear; if any of us encountered Red Hood, we were not to engage him alone. Not after what he did to those assassins. The implication was clear—he was beyond us. Beyond even Father, perhaps.

That thought chilled me more than I cared to admit. Jason had been trained by the League, molded by Ra's himself, briefly sharpened by Shiva. He understood Father's tactics, his strategies, the way he thought. That gave him an edge no one else had. He was trained by two worlds—by Batman, and by the League of Assassins.

He had become a phantom in Gotham, a predator among predators. No wonder tracking him was useless. He had been trained to vanish, to kill in silence, to move like shadow and strike like wind. Yet, he chooses to leave behind statements to his kills.

The ball was in his court now. We could only wait for him to make his move against Black Mask.

And when he did, I knew I had to be ready. Because if no one else could stop him… then it would fall to me.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Roman Sionis POV]

The morning sun hadn't yet touched Gotham, and the city outside his penthouse windows still looked half-asleep, cloaked in pale gray. Inside, Roman Sionis sat reclined in his leather chair, awake far earlier than usual, though his robe and slippers made it seem like he'd never gone to bed at all. A half-empty bottle of whiskey rested on the glass table beside him, and in his hand he cradled a short glass of the same amber poison.

He swirled it lazily, humming a low tune under his breath, staring not at the skyline but into the void of his own thoughts. Last night's move should have ended the Red Hood problem. The matter was supposed to be closed. Yet no amount of alcohol dulled the anxious itch crawling under his skin. It gnawed at him in silence, whispering that the bastard was still out there.

Red Hood felt less like a man and more like some roach that refused to die, no matter how many boots came down on him.

The sudden buzz of his phone cut through the stillness. The vibration rattled faintly against the wooden stool where he had left it, its glow stark against the dim room. Roman's jaw tightened. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp before reaching for the device.

"This better be good news, Li," he said flatly, irritation bleeding into his tone as though he could already smell the stench of disappointment.

"Turns out we underestimated the Red Hood," Li's voice came thin and cautious. "Three of them are dead. Only the woman survived. For some reason… he didn't kill her."

Roman froze for a heartbeat, then sat forward in his chair. "What?" His voice cracked into anger. "Only the bitch survived?" The words spilled sharp and venomous, his teeth bared in disbelief. He slammed his free hand down on the armrest, the sound echoing across the quiet room.

He knew it. He'd known the plan wasn't fulproof from the start, but desperation had pushed him to take it. And now the outcome only confirmed what his gut had screamed all along. The Red Hood wasn't some random thug playing tough—he was relentless, lucky, and far too precise to be taken out like any ordinary rival.

"That bastard's luckier than a turkey surviving Thanksgiving," Roman spat, pacing the words as he pressed his palm against his forehead. "He left her alive for a reason. It's a message. Straight to me." He was overthinking what it meant.

The thought turned his stomach. Red Hood's unpredictability wasn't just a nuisance anymore—it was poison. It made every shadow in the room feel too thick, every silence too loud. His paranoia shifted into overdrive instantly.

"Triple security," he snapped, his voice tightening as if the order itself could anchor him. "He'll come for me next. I know it." He didn't wait for Li's reply before ending the call, tossing the phone back onto the stool with a clatter.

Roman's chest heaved as he poured himself another drink, the clinking of ice cubes sounding harsher than it should. He stalked across the room toward the fireplace, its orange glow spilling over the expensive rug and polished floorboards. Lifting the glass, he raised it halfway to his lips, but his hand stopped trembling in midair. His own reflection flickered in the glass—a man who'd just played his strongest card and missed.

A man marked.

The realization boiled into rage. With a guttural roar, Roman hurled the glass into the flames, shattering it in a burst of whiskey and embers. The fire hissed, swallowing the drink whole, and he stood over it, chest heaving, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened.

He knew the truth, whether he wanted to face it or not. The Red Hood was coming. It wasn't a matter of if. It was a matter of when. And until then, every second of his life would be spent looking over his shoulder, waiting for the ghost in the red mask to finally collect.


- - -

Three days later, Red Hood personally walked Raymond into Big Lou's world, and the introductions went smoother than anyone could have expected. A deal was struck—clean and firm—something both Big Lou and Raymond could live with. On the surface, it looked like simple business, but Jason knew it was more than that. He'd just shifted the balance of power in that faction of Gotham without firing a single bullet.

The rest of the week was spent tightening his grip. He moved through the streets like a shadow, diverting drug traffickers operating under his territory away from Black Mask's supply line. Instead, he funneled them under the wings of Big Lou and Sophia Falcone, rotating his introductions carefully, deliberately.

Jason knew people like them; they weren't chess pieces, they were wild cards with tempers, egos, and paranoia. So he played to their personalities, talked business in a way that matched their temperaments, and let them believe they were making the choices. It was a delicate shuffle, but it worked—without raising fists or drawing guns.

Both Lou and Sophia were all too happy to snatch bread out of Black Mask's hands. They wanted in, and Red Hood made sure they felt like kings and queens walking through new doors. Each accepted his proposals, and now Jason skimmed his percentage clean off the top.

Every distributor he'd introduced was now funneling him a cut. His role as middleman had turned into a steady river of income. He kept his protection racket untouched too—forty percent flowing from both Black Mask's old network and protection from Batman's ever-present shadow. Jason was collecting from every side of the game without lifting more than a finger.

Meanwhile, on Gotham's surface, it was like he'd vanished. For a week, Red Hood activity was nonexistent. No shipments were hit, no stash houses blown open, no figure in a red mask kicking down doors. It was radio silence, and that silence was deafening for Roman Sionis.

Black Mask wrestled with it. On one hand, he wanted to believe Red Hood had gone to ground, hiding like a scared dog after realizing what kind of assassins and mercenaries Roman could buy with his money.

He told himself that story in the mirror, repeated it when Ms. Li gave her daily reports. Top-tier professionals, men who lived and breathed bloodshed—that was the caliber Roman could summon. Surely Red Hood had wised up and vanished.

But in the corners of his mind—where paranoia ate at him like acid—he couldn't ignore the darker possibility. What if Red Hood wasn't hiding? What if he was plotting? Lurking. Watching. Waiting for Roman to breathe too easy before tearing his world apart again.

The contradiction drove him mad. Each day, the false stalemate chipped away at his nerves. He lost Raymond, his golden goose of the eastern district, and with him, a major artery of his drug empire. Other traffickers started peeling away too, quiet exits that stung more than any gunshot wound.

The harassment had already slowed down his shipments, cut his profits, and made his operations brittle. Now, with his distributors slipping through his fingers, Roman felt the walls of his drug empire cracking.

His temper boiled. He could take many things—the blood, the backstabbing, the dirty games of Gotham's underworld—but not this. Not the steady drain of money. Not the humiliation of losing men and markets to a ghost in a red helmet. Not the endless pressure of waking each day with the thought that Red Hood might already have a rifle trained on him.

At times, his secretary found him standing behind the tall glass windows of his office at Janus Cosmetics, staring into the city skyline.

His masked face tilted slightly, as though he expected to catch a silhouette in the distance, a shadow ducking across rooftops. Even with his security trippled and armed guards stationed at every hall, Roman had no peace of mind.

Because deep down, he knew the truth: he had underestimated Red Hood. He had come to the realization that this wasn't some punk with a gun and a vendetta. This was a strategist, a predator who knew how to bleed him slow while never truely showing his hand. The uncertainty of it—the not knowing how far Red Hood was willing to go or how much he was willing to sacrifice—gnawed at Roman worse than any scar.

For the first time, Black Mask felt like he was fighting a battle he couldn't win alone. He needed allies. He needed other sharks to circle the waters with him, to make Gotham a smaller, suffocating cage that Red Hood couldn't escape from.

So, with his pride in one hand and desperation in the other, he ordered Ms. Li to arrange a meeting with Big Lou—the head of the Maroni crime family. But even as the decision settled, another problem arose. How to stage it.

Roman wasn't a fool. He knew appearances mattered. He couldn't come off desperate, not in front of Lou. He needed the setting itself to speak for him, to remind Lou whose city this was. Normally, he'd leave details like this to Ms. Li, but not this time. This time, Roman had to orchestrate it himself.

And this was where his paranoia sank its teeth in.

Every possible location he considered carried the phantom shadow of Red Hood. He imagined himself walking into a warehouse on the docks, only to see the red-helmeted silhouette perched high in the rafters, rifle trained on his skull. Too cliché, yes, but also too exposed.

Roman pictured the flash of a muzzle lighting the dark, imagined the spray of glass as bullets ripped through the walls. No—no docks. That was a grave waiting to be dug.

His mind shifted to The Tristessa Casino & Nightclub. A place full of noise, bodies, and eyes. Business and pleasure, yes, but pleasure was messy. He imagined Lou watching him too closely under the neon glow, noticing the twitch in his gloved hand as Roman poured a drink, noticing the way he flinched every time the bass from the speakers rattled the table.

He imagined a crowded floor where Red Hood could hide in plain sight, a helmet blending with the chaos, a shot fired from between dancers while strobe lights blinded the room. The thought made his jaw tighten.

Then there was Janus Cosmetics, his corporate throne. Sterile, clean, untouchable. That building was his fortress, his face of legitimacy.

Dragging Lou there was power incarnate. But even as he pictured the gleam of the glass, he imagined Red Hood slipping in through the elevators, disguising himself as one of the suits, a gun hidden beneath a pressed jacket. Roman could almost hear the click of a suppressed round echoing off the white walls. He drummed his fingers hard on the desk, the sound echoing in the silence like a metronome counting down to his death.

Every scenario ended with Red Hood. No matter how secure, no matter how fortified, the bastard always appeared in the corners of Roman's imagination. It wasn't just planning anymore—it was a paranoid war game with a ghost who refused to stay gone.

Still, he had to choose. He had to force himself to believe that appearances mattered more than the shadows clawing at his mind.

Once Lou agreed, once he shook on the hunt for Red Hood, Roman already had the next move lined up. Sophia Falcone. And with the rivalry between Maroni and Falcone still simmering beneath Gotham's surface, Lou's compliance would be the bait he'd use to pull Sophia in too. Divide and conquer, but with his own empire rebuilt brick by brick beneath their feet.

They were likely to comply since they shared closs territories.

Roman's plan was set, but his paranoia never left him. Even as he settled on a location, he found himself glancing at the window again, the city stretching endlessly below. Somewhere out there, he knew, Red Hood was waiting. And Roman hated that he couldn't tell if the waiting was real—or just in his head.

- - -

The next day, Ms. Li stepped into Roman Sionis's office with her usual clipped calm, the kind that made people second-guess whether she was human or machine. Her tablet was tucked against her chest like a shield, her heels clicking once against the polished floor before she came to a stop. No wasted words, no pleasantries—just business.

"Big Lou rejected your request for a meeting," she said, her tone flat, professional. "So I extended another to Sophia Falcone, but she declined as well."

Roman's head snapped up from behind his desk. Afternoon light cut through the blinds, throwing sharp stripes across the glossy surface of the desk, across the skull mask staring back at her. He leaned back, the leather chair groaning, his silence stretching until the weight of it pressed on the room. Then his jaw tightened.

"What?" The word ripped out of him, guttural and raw.

"They both made it clear," Li continued, completely unfazed, "that if you want to meet them, it has to be on neutral ground. A public establishment. Their terms."

Roman let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He leaned forward, the carved skull catching the light so its hollow grin almost glared. "Those assholes think they're all high and mighty? They forget their place in this city. I was running the game when their predecessors were still polishing their daddy's shoes. And now? Now they strut around like they invented crime." His voice dropped into a growl. His gloved hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the ashtray.

Li adjusted her glasses with a single flick of her finger, calm as ever. "Well," she said matter-of-factly, "you're the one asking for the meeting."

The line hit like a jab. Roman's masked face tilted, staring at her hard enough to burn holes through the glass. But Li didn't blink, and that was part of why he kept her close. Everyone else trembled. She didn't.

Finally, he exhaled, waving a gloved hand in reluctant dismissal. "Fine. Talk to Big Lou. Confirm if a public spot—one of mine—will do. I'm done waiting around while this Red Hood prick chews through my business. Every day he breathes makes me look weak. I need him gone like…yesterday." His voice cracked with frustration, the words echoing sharp against the walls.

"On it," Li said simply. She tapped quick notes on her tablet and turned to leave, her heels fading into the distance, leaving Roman alone with the quiet hiss of his anger.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

By nightfall, the deal was set. The Meltdown Lounge was chosen—a place Roman owned down to the last bulb and cocktail napkin. Gotham's glittering rot funneled into this club: neon bleeding across polished glass, velvet booths, the air thick with liquor and perfume. A temple of decadence where Roman's shadow stretched long and unchallenged.

Black Mask arrived first, naturally. He always did. He claimed a table in the VIP section, a dark silhouette under the pulsing glow of red and violet. The bass from the dance floor below thudded through the walls, muffled but steady, like the heartbeat of the city. Waitresses drifted in black dresses, graceful and wordless, filling glasses, distracting patrons too drunk to notice the storm building in their midst.

Roman sat tall, fingers tapping against a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. Behind the mask, his jaw worked, teeth grinding. He hated waiting. Every second that ticked by was another slight.

Finally, the doors parted, and Big Lou lumbered in. The man was a wall in a suit, broad shoulders stuffed into fabric that strained against seams. His belly pressed against the buttons, and his smug little smirk was carved deep across his fleshy face. Roman's fingers twitched at the sight.

"Thanks for coming," Roman said, standing just enough to nod, extending a gloved hand that carried no warmth. Then he sank back down, voice sharp around the edges.

"Sure," Lou replied, settling into the chair opposite him with a casual grunt. "But we've got to wait for one more."

Roman tilted his head, the skull mask turning the gesture into something predatory. "And who might that be?"

The answer arrived on stiletto heels. The sound of them clicked sharp against the polished floor before Sophia Falcone stepped into the glow. Sharp suit, sharper gaze, hair framing her face. She moved with effortless control, slid into the empty chair like she owned it. She didn't need to say a word—her presence shifted the entire table. Two against one now, even here in his house.

Roman's lips curled beneath the mask, though he forced his body still.

He wasted no time. "We've got a problem. Red Hood. He's torching shipments, crippling crews, spreading fear in every corner. He's making us look weak in a city already crawling with scavengers. You both know what happens if he keeps spreading—he becomes the problem, bigger than any of us." His words were deliberate, soaked in venom, carrying the weight of a man who'd seen empires burn. And burned some himself.

Lou leaned back, folding his thick arms, smirk widening. "Sounds like a you problem, Roman. Not mine."

Sophia's smile was faint, humorless. "You've been in this business long enough to know the rules. You pick a fight with one of these freaks? It's personal. Don't expect us to bleed for your mistakes."

"I didn't even pick the fight!" Roman snapped, his voice rising. "He came at me. I'm telling you, this piece of garbage is dangerous. He needs to be clipped before he gets too comfortable and spreads his wings."

The two exchanged a glance, silent, before turning their eyes back to him. The message was clear: they didn't care.

Roman's fists tightened under the table, leather creaking with the strain. "This isn't about me. It's about Gotham. You think he'll stop here? No. Today it's my shipments. Tomorrow it's your vaults, your clubs, your men bleeding in the gutter while this psycho builds his empire on our corpses."

Big Lou chuckled, low and dismissive. "Then you better deal with him quick, before that happens."

Sophia's eyes never left the skull. "We're not interested in your war, Roman. Not today. Not ever."

The words sliced deep. Roman leaned back, forcing his body to stay calm while rage screamed inside him. His glass trembled in his grip before he slammed it down, the clink loud and sharp. The skull mask hid his expression, but the fury bled through every taut movement, every strained breath.

"Fine," he said, voice low, dangerous, like embers burning under ash. "But don't come crawling to me when his warpath reaches your doorsteps."

Neither flinched. They were already gone, in spirit if not in body. To them, he was noise. A relic screaming at a tide that was already rising.

Roman sat still even as they rose, his gloved fingers digging into the armrests, leather groaning under the pressure of his grip. In his head, he ran through other options. If they wouldn't stand with him, then he'd stand alone—and Gotham would drown for it.

Downstairs, the Meltdown Lounge pulsed with life. Music slammed, glasses clinked, laughter spilled out across velvet and neon. But in the corner booth where Black Mask sat, there was no music, no laughter. Only the silent, grinding fury of a man denied, a man already scheming.

Because in Gotham, you didn't brush off Roman Sionis. Not without paying the price.

He didn't storm out. He never gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing him rattled in public. Roman rose slowly, smoothed his coat, and moved through the club like a spiteful spirite. The neon lights bled over the skull mask as he passed, painting its grin in shifting reds and purples. Patrons barely noticed him, too drunk or too terrified to meet his gaze. By the time he stepped outside, the night air bit cold against the heat of his rage.

His car waited at the curb, engine humming, headlights glowing pale in the fog that rolled off Gotham's streets. Roman paused before sliding in, his breath sharp, his chest tight. Lou's smirk. Sophia's cold stare. Their dismissal scraped at him worse than any bullet wound.

He jerked the door open and told the driver, "Take the long way."

The sedan pulled off, winding through Gotham's arteries. Downtown's glitz fell away quickly, replaced by rusted steel, cracked concrete, and alleys that stank of piss and rot. Streetlamps flickered weak, half-dead, spilling pools of sickly light onto pavement slick from earlier rain. Roman's rage sharpened in that darkness, narrowing into something cruel and deliberate.

That's when he spotted them.

Two young hustlers, barely old enough to shave, slouched at a corner. One was passing a baggie into a shaking hand, the other keeping half-hearted watch. Rats, bold enough to crawl out into his streets like they owned them.

Roman tapped the divider. "Stop the car."

The driver braked. Roman stepped out, polished shoes crunching wet gravel. His presence carried before him—the skull mask glowing under the streetlight like a death's head. The kids froze, eyes wide.

"Hey—hey, man, we—we ain't on your turf," one stammered, hands up.

Roman didn't reply. Silence was worse. His pistol came out instead, and with one sharp swing, he cracked the butt across the boy's jaw. Teeth hit the ground. The kid crumpled, wailing.

The second bolted.

Roman's hand shot out, grabbing his hoodie. He yanked him back, slamming him against a brick wall so hard dust shook loose. The boy gasped, scrambling to breathe. Roman buried a fist in his gut, folding him, then flung him to the ground like trash.

"You think these streets belong to you?" Roman snarled, his voice echoing harsh from behind the mask. He seized the kid by the hair, forcing his bloodied face up. "This is my city. Mine. And I don't share."

The boy tried to beg, but Roman cut him off with a vicious kick to the ribs. Bone cracked. The sound rang down the alley.

The first one crawled, dragging himself through filth, but Roman turned, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him back across the pavement. Sparks scraped from the sole of his sneaker. Roman crouched over him, close enough that the mask filled the boy's vision.

"This city doesn't forgive weakness," Roman hissed. "And neither do I."

Then he brought the pistol butt down. Once. Twice. Three times. Wet crunches filled the air, the boy's cries twisting into gargled sobs.

Roman straightened, chest heaving, breath fogging in the cold night. The alley now stank of iron and blood, layered over garbage rot. His rage cooled, not gone but tempered, like a blade pulled fresh from flame.

He holstered the pistol, smoothed his coat, and turned back toward the waiting car. The driver glanced at the blood on his gloves but said nothing. He never did. Roman slid inside, the mask's hollow grin fixed forward as the sedan pulled back into the night.

Behind him, the two kids twitched weakly, broken and forgotten. They were never the point. They were release.

And as Gotham's lights blurred past the windows, Roman's thoughts narrowed to one name, one problem. Red Hood.

He slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his tailored suit, pulling out his phone with the kind of calm that came only from a man used to making life-and-death decisions like ordering takeout. A quick dial with no hesitation. The line clicked, someone picked up, and Roman didn't even bother with greetings. His voice was sharp, cold, and final.

"Put a ten million dollar bounty on the Red Hood."

That was all he said. No explanations, no follow-up. He ended the call with a snap of his thumb, sliding the phone back into his jacket like the words he'd just spoken weren't about to send shockwaves rippling through Gotham's underworld.

If Lou and Sophia wouldn't help him, fine. He didn't need them. He'd make an example of Red Hood so brutal, so final, that Gotham itself would remember why Black Mask was feared.

And when he was finished, the others would crawl back.

They always did.

Word of the bounty didn't spread slowly—it tore through Gotham like shrapnel from a grenade. Within the hour, whispers became chatter, and chatter became a roar that reached every corner of the city where blood and money dictated loyalty.

In the shadows of Crime Alley, a pair of mercenaries known as the Heat Brothers—ex-military, dishonorably discharged, and now hired killers—perked up at the figure.

Across town, the Bravado Crew, a gang of thrill-seeking vigilante-hunters with more guns than brains, slammed a fresh magazine into their rifles, already hyping themselves up on the fantasy of taking down Gotham's newly most dangerous wild card.

The Iceberg Lounge buzzed with talk as Oswald Cobblepot's hired guns debated the odds. A few of Penguin's regular hitters—the likes of Victor Zsasz, always itching for an excuse to carve another tally into his skin—smirked at the news, practically licking their blades. Zsasz wasn't loyal to anyone but his compulsions, and a payday like this was just an excuse to indulge them.

Down in the Narrows, Deadshot was already on the radar. Floyd Lawton didn't need anyone to tell him twice—he was a professional, a perfectionist, and when you heard "ten million," you loaded your rifles and calculated angles before the echo of the words even faded.

Not to be left out, rumors even reached Coal Cash—Grifter, a member of the Wild C.A.T.s covert action team. He didn't need the money, not really, but the challenge of putting down someone who took out the Hands of Four, solo? That was the kind of hunt he lived for. Whether he'd take the job or not was anyone's guess, but just the whisper that he might was enough to make smaller players think twice before jumping in.

Bounty hunters, smugglers, low-life assassins, and mercenaries—every rat, snake, and vulture Gotham bred over decades—were suddenly on the prowl. Some were eager. Some were cautious. But all of them were hungry.

Roman Sionis leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink as though nothing had changed. Behind the blank, grinning face of his black mask, his eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. He knew exactly what he'd just done: he'd unleashed Gotham's deadliest on one man.

And to him, it wasn't a question of if Red Hood would fall, but how soon.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Across the city, Jason Todd felt it before he even heard it. You didn't need ears on the ground to know when the tide shifted in Gotham—you felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the way the air seemed to grow heavier, in how every shadow pressed closer like it had teeth. The city had moods, and tonight Gotham's mood was different. Paranoid. Predatory, and waiting to pounce.

Jason sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots hooked over the ledge, the glow of the city stretching out beneath him like a restless ocean of light and smoke. His helmet rested at his side, set down carelessly, while a cigarette smoldered between his fingers.

The smoke curled thin and gray into the night, dancing against the neon haze bleeding up from the streets. From up here, you could see Gotham trying to pretend it was alive—clubs pulsing with bass, cars cruising under the sick glow of streetlamps, sirens threading through the air like background music. But Jason knew better. Gotham wasn't alive. Gotham was always hungry.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. Then again. Then again. He didn't even need to check it. By the third vibration, he already knew. The city's underworld had been lit up, a hundred whisper chains all passing around one name. His name. Red Hood.

Jason crushed the cigarette against the ledge, leaving behind a faint scorch on the old stone, and pulled the helmet over his head with a sharp click of the seal. He didn't need to read the full notice; the number was enough. Ten million. A price on his head, sure—but more than that, a declaration. Roman Sionis wasn't just pissed. He was desperate. And desperation in Gotham was a dangerous thing.

Jason leaned forward slightly, gaze tracking the streets below. His eyes were trained for it—for spotting the little tells that most people overlooked. Men loitering with just a bit too much purpose. Cars parked in places that didn't belong to them.

Windows with the glint of scopes catching the light for just a fraction of a second. The amateurs always moved fast, too eager to get paid, too sloppy to live long. The professionals though—they would sit back, study him, breathe with him. They'd try to learn his rhythms. Jason knew, because that's exactly what he would do. That's what he was.

In his mind, the roster began to build itself. The Heat Brothers—thick-headed military dropouts with discipline in short bursts, dangerous if they caught you cornered.

The Bravado Crew; loud and messy, but irritating in numbers, like roaches with guns. Zsasz—just a knife freak with a tally fetish, not much of a threat if you kept your distance. Deadshot—now he was the real problem. Precise shooter, patient, impossible to underestimate.

Jason's thoughts darkened. Slade. If Deathstroke was truly still alive and took the bounty, then Jason would welcome the chance. In fact, he'd savor it. The thought of finally putting a bullet between Slade Wilson's eyes was almost sweet.

But hoping Slade was dead—that was a dangerous assumption. One Jason couldn't afford to make. If Deathstroke was still breathing, Jason would have to treat every step through this city like he was walking across tripwires.

His jaw clenched beneath the mask, the synthetic voice modulator humming faintly as he breathed out through his teeth. The city wasn't just watching him anymore. It wasn't just wary of him, giving him space like it usually did. Tonight, the city itself felt like it was hunting him.

The urge to end this early tugged at him. If it wasn't for the fact he needed Black Mask alive, if Roman wasn't still a tool to be used, what would stop Jason from putting a bullet through the bastard's skull right now and wiping the board clean? It would be easy. Tempting. Too tempting. But no—Roman was more useful breathing, at least for now.

His patience, though, was wearing thin. Jason could feel it in the way his hands tightened on the edge of the ledge, in the restless twitch of his shoulders. This cat-and-mouse game with Roman had been dragging too long, and every part of him wanted to cut the chase short. But then—Ra's.

The voice, the teachings, the endless lectures that had been drilled into his skull during his time with the League of Assassins. The old man had taught him patience, had hammered in the art of warfare. That discipline was the only reason Jason hadn't pulled the trigger already. The satisfaction wasn't in the kill. It was in the control. In making Roman dance to his tune, in pressing him into a corner until the only way out was the one Jason had carved.

But still… a gauntlet across Gotham? No thanks. That would draw too much light, too much exposure. Gotham's hunters weren't the only ones watching—he knew the Bat was out there too, keeping tabs, waiting for him to slip. Jason couldn't afford to get careless.

Even so, if someone was dumb enough or bold enough to step up to him, he'd deal with them. And he wouldn't hesitate. Jason had patrolled these streets for most of his life—first under the Bat, now on his own.

He knew every alley, every rooftop, every choke point and blind corner. He didn't expect many of them would even get close enough to make him sweat. But if they did, he'd welcome them with open arms and usher them into the cold embrace of death.

He straightened, shoulders rolling as if shaking off the city's weight, and glanced once more down at the restless sprawl of Gotham.

"Alright, Roman," he muttered, voice distorted by the mask, low and sharp. "If this is how you want to play it, let's see who's still standing at the end of it all."

- - -

For the next couple of days, it was as if Gotham's hunt for the Red Hood had burned out before it ever really began. The storm of excitement and violence that usually followed a price that big on someone's head fizzled into nothing.

It wasn't that the city had forgotten—far from it. It was just that the city had nothing to feed on. No sightings. No close calls. No whispers of blood in the alleys by him. Red Hood had vanished into the sprawl as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving bounty hunters, mercenaries, and assassins alike gnashing their teeth in frustration.

A few of them stuck around, prowling the rooftops and alleys like desperate scavengers. But most gave up and slipped back into their usual gigs. They started calling it a fool's errand, chasing a ghost that didn't want to be found.

In the bars and hideouts, rumors spread with bitter laughter. Some claimed the Red Hood had tucked tail and fled the city altogether. Others called him a coward, saying he didn't have the guts to face the heat.

While the streets buzzed with hollow speculation, Raymond was busy celebrating. His nightclub was alive again, lights strobing across smoke-thick air, bass hammering through the floors as if the walls themselves were pulsing with blood.

The reopening had drawn a full crowd—dealers, hustlers, thugs with too much money, and rich junkies eager to waste themselves on sex, coke, and champagne.

Raymond raised a glass in the center of the main floor earlier in the night, making a toast to survival, to business, to his own damn resilience. The applause was half-sincere, half-slurred, but he didn't care. A toast was just a show. The real business of the evening was happening in the booths upstairs.

By the time he slipped into his VIP section, the party was already deep into excess. The air smelled of perfume, sweat, and the sharp sting of cocaine. The booth was drenched in neon light, the leather seats slick with spilled liquor.

Around him, his guests were tangled up in their own little distractions—strippers with their breasts pressed against champagne glasses, coke lines carved across bare skin, pills dissolving in cocktails like sugar. The scene was decadent and ugly, exactly what these people paid for.

"Hey, Ray," one of the men slurred from across the table. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than it should, a champagne flute clutched in one hand. His pupils were wide, his grin crooked, the mix of alcohol and coke stripping him of whatever composure he had left.

Raymond leaned back in his seat, adjusting his cufflinks with the kind of subtle annoyance only men in his position had the luxury of showing. "What is it?"

The man smirked, leaning forward, voice dragging with drunken weight. "Heard about the bounty tagged on that new guy?"

Another voice chimed in before Raymond could answer. "You mean, the Red Hood," said a second man, stirring his drink lazily with a finger. He watched the pills swirl and melt into the golden fizz, then slid the glass toward the stripper curled at his side. She laughed, brushing her hair out of her face, and drank without hesitation as her hand drifted down his chest.

Raymond kept his disgust buried beneath a smooth mask, his jaw tight as he watched the girl swallow. It was vile, pathetic—but this was the crowd he entertained. And he was smart enough to know not to judge out loud.

"What about him?" Raymond finally said, his tone clipped, careful.

"No one's seen him since the bounty dropped," the first man answered, his words spilling out between heavy sniffs of coke off the round curve of a dancer's ass.

He slammed the powder up his nostrils and then threw his head back with a manic grin. "They're saying maybe the city's too small for him. Maybe he bolted. Or maybe he's just some coward hiding under a bed somewhere. A real poltroon, you know?"

Raymond's lips curled at the word, but he didn't rise to it. He knew better. He could say with certainty the Red Hood wasn't gone, wasn't hiding, wasn't anything close to what these idiots thought. He'd seen him with his own eyes not even an hour ago, in the shadows behind the club. Their brief meeting still buzzed in his mind as clear as the music vibrating through the walls now.

"I doubt any of that's true," Raymond said flatly, pouring the last of his drink into his glass. He swirled it once and knocked it back in one swallow. "And why are you asking me?" His gaze drifted across the booth, sharp, testing their faces for cracks.

The third man barely looked up from the lap dance he was drowning in, his hand wandering over the dancer's thighs as if she were furniture. "Because you're the head of the Eastern District drug trade. Nothing happens here without you knowing. Not shit."

Raymond let the silence stretch before answering, his expression unreadable. Finally, he set his glass down on the table and rose from his seat. "Well, I don't. I've got far more important things to handle than chasing a ghost in a helmet." He smoothed his jacket and straightened his tie, offering the group a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Enjoy the party, fellas."

With a lazy gesture of dismissal, he turned and walked away, leaving the booth to its haze of sweat, coke, and laughter. His steps carried him toward the other VIPs, the real players who had shown up tonight.

The ones worth his time. Behind him, the rich junkies sank back into their vices, too wasted to care about the kind of information they shared in the presence of the strippers.