The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

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

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

I made a mess.

And I know he's pissed.

Good.

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

Truth is... I already started.

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

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

Me? I'm just getting warmed up.

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

Predictable.

And right on time. 2:00 AM.

Some people run on clockwork, even the scumbags.

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

Grapple line hisses out as I glided through Gotham.

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

Tracker locked.

Then I walk.

No rush.

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

We're gonna have a little…talk.

- - -

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

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

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

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

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

Troy Rusk.

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

I stepped out from the shadows.

"Hey, Troy."

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

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

"You—Red Hood…"

"That's right."

I cracked my knuckles.

He went for his gun. Too slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - -

The call came at 4:09 a.m.

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

But this? This felt like the world ending.

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

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

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

Roman stopped mid-step.

"Found him?"

"He's… he's dead, sir. Real dead."

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

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

"Where?"

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

The call ended.

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

He stared.

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

Roman said nothing.

Just stared.

Then his eyes moved to the windshield.

Red spray paint.

"I OWN YOUR STREETS."

Each word a slap.

His jaw clenched. His breath hissed between his teeth.

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

No one spoke. They knew better.

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

"I want him dead. You hear me?"

No one dared blink.

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

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

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

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

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

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

It started in Old Bristol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad move.

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

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

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

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

"Next drop point," Red Hood growled.

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

He didn't get a thank you.

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

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

He was gone before the sirens started screaming.

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

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

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

- - -


[Roman Sionis' POV]


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

But this?

This was personal.

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

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

The worst part? The message.

Not the blood. Not the bodies.

It was the tone.

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

He was after something else.

So Roman changed his approach.

He needed chaos of his own.

And chaos… he had in spades.

- - -

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

And at the head?

Roman.

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

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

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

He stopped. Looked each man in the eye.

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

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

Roman smiled beneath the mask. Cold and tight.

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

He stepped back, clinked his glass.

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

The room buzzed with savage excitement.

The hounds had been released.

- - -

A/N:—

Hello again, my dear readers.

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

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unprovoked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Bertinellis," some guard whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, as I was saying—"

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

'What the fuck—my guns?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ice this motherfucker—"

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

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

Big Lou barked a laugh before quickly shutting up.

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

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

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

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

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

'Gotcha.'

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

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

All hell broke loose.

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

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

A scream cut through the chaos.

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

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

And then, silence.

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

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

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

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

CRACK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason shrugged. "Could've been worse."

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

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

"She hit my shipment," Big Lou snapped.

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

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

They went quiet.

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

Jason holstered one pistol.

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

"And?" Big Lou pressed.

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

The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

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

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

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

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

Their silence told him he'd hit a nerve.

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

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

They didn't answer.

But the gears were turning. And that was enough.

For now.

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

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

He let that sit for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if they do?" Big Lou asked.

"I bury 'em myself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more yelling. No more bullets.

Just business.

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

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Take a look at this," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How's your daughter?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - -

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

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

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

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

Because they were.

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

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

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

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

Then a scream.

And a body hit the floor.

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

"Shut up!" Roman barked.

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

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

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

And then he did.

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

Roman stumbled back, gun shaking.

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

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

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

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

"Then who?" Batman pressed harder.

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

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

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

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

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

- - -

[Across from the Warehouse – Rooftop Perch]

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

Jason's lips curled into a smirk.

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

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

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

Jason stopped beside him.

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

Just to send a message.


- - -

[Two Night's Later At The Docks]

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

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

Then came the truck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THUD.

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

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

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

The wheel locked.

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

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

Then came the batarangs.

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

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

Batman dropped in like a guillotine blade from the shadows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Its name is Amazo." Batman replied.