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.

- - -

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[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.

- - -

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[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."

- - -

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[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.