The door to the safehouse groaned shut behind him with a metallic whine that echoed through the concrete walls. Place smelled like dust, burnt wiring, and cheap takeout.
Cracked tile underfoot, wires snaking along the ceiling like veins. A mattress lay in the corner, no sheets, no blanket—just a vague suggestion of sleep. Way different from the apartment he used when he needed to play normal.
Jason yanked off the Red Hood helmet and tossed it onto the workbench, the thud of it landing loud in the stillness. He peeled off the armored jacket next, muscles tight and aching from the run—and still carrying the lingering heat of the factory fire. His skin felt like it was steaming under the shirt.
The red bat emblem on his chestplate caught the overhead light and glared up at him, like it had something to say.
He didn't listen.
Instead, he crossed the room, boots crunching against scattered shell casings and broken bits of gear. He stopped at the wall.
It was a war board, chaotic, obsessive, and deeply personal. Pinned photos, maps of Gotham's neighborhoods, routes in and out of gang-controlled territories. Strings connected key names and crime scenes. Lines were crossed through some. Others were circled in black.
But only one name sat in the dead center, circled in red that looked more like dried blood than ink.
Joker.
Jason just stood there, arms folded, jaw clenched.
"That was so damn fun, Bruce," he muttered under his breath, grabbing a marker and drawing a thick, black line through one of the entries under Black Mask.
AMAZO Shipment, Terminated.
His hand trembled for a split second—not from pain, not even adrenaline. Restraint. Holding back was always the hardest part. He could've taken the shot.
Could've made sure Bruce died in that factory explosion, just like he did all those years ago. Could've ended the whole game in one flaming flash of poetic justice.
But he didn't want Bruce dead.
That wasn't the mission.
This wasn't about petty revenge anymore. And honestly? The pain had dulled. Hardened. Been weaponized.
This was about truth.
About showing Gotham exactly who its heroes really were—and who was willing to cross lines to fix what they wouldn't.
He stepped over to the sink, turned the faucet till it squeaked, and splashed cold water on his face. It stung against the heat still clinging to him, but he welcomed it.
He looked up.
The mirror was cracked. Probably had been for a while. His reflection stared back in jagged fragments. Half Jason. Half Red Hood. All ghost.
He stared for a long second.
Didn't blink.
"This is who I am now," he murmured, wiping water from his jaw.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—half cocky, half dead serious.
"Everything's going according to plan."
- - -
[Bruce Wayne's POV – The Batcave]
The Batwing touched down in the hangar with a hiss and a blast of scorched air.
Bruce stepped out slowly, cape dragging behind him, its edges still charred from the fire. Ash clung to the fabric like guilt he couldn't shake. The soft hum of the Batcomputer filled the cavern, quiet but constant, no help against the noise pounding in his head.
He walked straight past the glass cases and armor racks, heading for the console. Pulled off the cowl with a tired tug and dropped it on the desk. Then just stood there, hands braced against the edge, head down.
Behind him, Alfred stood in his usual spot, quiet, watchful, patient.
The screen flickered to life, displaying a frozen street-cam image. Mid-chase. Red Hood was caught in the blue mustang flipping the middle finger to the traffic camera, without the visibility of his mask. The red bat symbol on his chest blazed like a slap in the face.
Bruce didn't even blink.
"You could've stopped him," Alfred said quietly after a beat. "You had the shot."
Bruce's jaw flexed. His fingers dug into the desk.
"He wanted me to follow him," he muttered. "The car, the route... even the factory. It was all staged."
He stared past the screen now, somewhere far away.
"Maybe, even the fall…"
Alfred took a careful step forward, voice soft. "That place… you haven't gone back there since—"
"I know," Bruce cut in, flat and fast.
That shut it down. The way his voice clipped the words made it clear, not tonight. Maybe not ever. He couldn't even tell Alfred about how seeing an imposter wearing the bat crest made him feel, because he would be asked questions he didn't have answers to.
Alfred gave a quiet nod and stepped away, leaving Bruce alone with the hum of the computer and the weight in his chest.
Someone out there knew everything. Not just the mission. The location. The symbol. Knew who he was, what he'd done... what he couldn't forget.
And Bruce knew next to nothing in return.
For a man who lived and breathed intel, the silence was maddening.
He sat down, fingers moving across the keys. Pulled up traffic cams, dock feeds, warehouse footage. Nothing helpful. Just static and shadows.
He thought back to the Joker. He'd interrogated him a while ago—same as always. Arrogant. Cryptic. Mocking. But something about it hadn't sat right this time. Jason's words still echoed in his head. The control in his movements. The precision. That wasn't Joker-style chaos.
That was intent.
He barely had time to process it when he heard soft footsteps coming down the stone stairs—light, fast, and not trying to be sneaky.
Damian.
The kid looked fresh from patrol—or maybe fresh from an argument about homework. His suit was still half-worn. Eyes sharp though, as always.
"Homework done?" Bruce asked without looking up.
"Barely," Damian muttered. "Alfred threatened to bench me if I didn't finish my math. I'm calling that blackmail."
Bruce let out a faint breath, not quite a laugh.
"You should thank him."
"I'd rather write an essay on the field applications of C-4."
He drifted toward the console, leaning casually, but his gaze landed on the screen.
He studied his father for a moment. That expression… it wasn't anger. Not frustration either.
It looked like loss.
But Damian didn't say anything. He knew better.
"You catch the shooter?" he asked instead, changing gears.
"No," Bruce replied. "He got away."
"Who's this guy, and did you get a look at his face?"
"Masked. It was Red Hood."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "Same guy who targeted the Bertinellis?"
Bruce nodded slightly. "And now he's after Black Mask. Been hitting his supply lines for weeks. Not stealing, just making a point."
Damian tilted his head. "What kind of point?"
Bruce didn't answer right away.
"I'm not sure yet," he admitted.
Damian crossed his arms. "So no leads. No motive. That's why you haven't caught him."
"Not yet. But if we stay close to Black Mask, track his movements, we'll get another shot. He'll slip up."
"Unless he's already ahead of you," Damian said, just enough edge in his voice to toe the line.
Bruce glanced sideways. "Tread lightly."
Damian smirked but moved on. "Still… hard to believe someone slipped past you. Especially once you had him cornered."
Bruce didn't defend himself. He deflected.
"How's school?"
Damian groaned like he'd been stabbed. "It's a government-mandated hostage situation. With calculators."
"Made any friends?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Since the suspension, everyone avoids me. Which, frankly, is ideal."
"But?"
"There's one kid. Keeps trying to talk to me. Like we're in some kind of comedy show. I'm one poorly-timed joke away from dropping him."
Bruce didn't look up. "Maybe give him a chance. Not everyone's a threat."
"Feels like a lot of them are," Damian muttered. "Anyway, if we're tailing Black Mask, how do we do that from here?"
"Already handled it."
He tapped a few commands. A live audio field came through, voices in the background.
"I bugged his office before I left."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "Nice."
On the feed, Black Mask was pacing and yelling. Pure fury on a loop.
Bruce leaned in. "Let's see how he handles being cornered."
Damian nodded. "We track Roman long enough… we'll find Red Hood."
Bruce said nothing. Just stared at the screen.
"Yeah," Bruce said quietly. "Eventually."
- - -
[Janus Tower—Black Mask Empire Building]
Two men stepped out of the elevator and into the heart of one of Gotham's most heavily guarded buildings. The place felt like a fortress—security cameras in every corner, guards posted at every turn.
It wasn't a place you walked through casually. You moved with purpose, or not at all.
The older of the two had a clean-cut, sharp suit, the kind of guy who had definitely broken bones for a paycheck—walked with calm authority. His companion? A newbie to the inner circle of the empire.
Built like a pitbull but stiff in the shoulders, like he hadn't figured out how to carry himself in this world yet.
"Listen, I know you haven't met him yet, but keep it together, yeah?" the handler said without looking over. "This is Black Mask."
The newbie didn't answer, just nodded, jaw locked.
"The first boss to run Gotham in twenty years," the handler went on, slowing as they reached a massive brown door.
"Whatever he wants, he gets. And trust me… his look takes some getting used to, so watch yourself."
He was about to push open the door when shouting erupted from the other side.
"Goddammit!"
There was a loud bang, something getting slammed. The door shook a little from their perspective.
"Great," the handler muttered under his breath. "He's pissed as hell."
They stepped inside.
The office wasn't really an office. It was more like a private conference room.
Gotham's skyline stretched out behind the huge glass windows, moody and grey. In the center of the room, behind a desk big enough to land a drone on, stood Roman Sionis—Black Mask himself.
He wasn't alone. Three guards stood near the desk, fresh off delivering bad news.
His personal secretary, Ms. Li, stood off to the side, tablet in hand, as composed as ever. She didn't flinch, didn't interrupt, just kept reading schedules, names, and damage control strategies.
The rookie's eyes locked on Black Mask, wide and stunned. That mask was real. Skin fused, shaped like a skull, and somehow even more menacing up close.
Cold, unreadable, and permanent.
"Troy's replacement?" the secretary asked, glancing at the newbie.
The handler nodded. Troy Rusk had been found dead just a few days ago, with a crowbar jammed through his chest. Since then, Roman's tightened security like a noose.
"Our concern is the one who ordered the android theft," the secretary said, flipping a page on her screen. "Red Hood."
Roman let out a low growl. "That son of a bitch."
"For weeks, he's been taking out your shipments. It's almost like he's draining you—cutting off your supply, one truck at a time."
The newbie and his handler didn't say a word. Just blended in near the other guards, staying quiet and out of the blast zone.
"I paid good money to hire the Fearsome Hand of Four to gut that bastard," Roman barked, pacing behind his desk. "They've been MIA ever since. Maybe they should check the sewers—bet that's where he lives."
He stopped for a second, seething.
"Do any of you fuckers know how many people were lined up to bid on Amazo?"
The room stayed dead silent.
"I'm talking dictators, cartel freaks, old-world psychos. The list was a damn who's who of global nightmares."
He spun around. "Millions—gone! Just like that!"
"And whose money was it?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
"Yours," the secretary replied without missing a beat.
Roman pointed at her like she just nailed the bonus round. "That's right. Mine. All of it!"
He turned his chair to face the new guys directly. The rookie's eyes stayed locked on his mask, unable to look away. The thing was nightmare fuel.
The type of shit that could hunt him in his sleep.
The handler gave him a sharp look, 'keep it together.'
Roman stepped out from behind the desk.
"That robot was my ticket to the next level. Big-time. International players. You know what that means?"
Nobody answered.
"It means I'm stuck down here again, balls-deep in small-time bullshit. Back to breaking legs and selling dime bags while Batman stomps all over my business and steals my broken merchandise."
"Batman did take the scraps," the secretary added, almost like she was talking about a recipe. "That's what he does, he keep things."
Roman sucked in a slow breath, calming himself just enough to keep from breaking something.
"This clown—this Red Fool—"
"Red Hood," the secretary corrected.
He waved her off. "Whatever. He's crossed a line I think only Joker had the balls to."
He looked straight at the newbie.
"You. New guy."
He tensed up upon being addressed.
"Don't be nervous," Roman said, stepping closer. "But if you keep staring at me like that, I will rip your eyes out and make you choke on them."
The newbie blinked and looked away
fast, but the disturbing sight of Roman's face slowly pulled his eyes like magnets.
Roman slugged him with a heavy punch. Fist to nose. The rookie hit the floor with a grunt and a spatter of blood.
"Give me the details for the next shipment," Roman said casually, walking back to his chair like nothing happened.
"six cases of SMGs and PDWs," the newbie said through the nose bleed, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "One crate of RPGs…"
In the Batcave, Bruce sat quietly in front of the Batcomputer while Damian stood nearby, both listening through the live feed from the bug Bruce had slipped into Roman's office.
"It's a delivery-only. Everything's prepaid," the rookie continued. "No on-site exchange."
"I've doubled the security detail," the secretary added. "And moved the drop to a new location."
Roman nodded. "There's no way Red Hood finds that spot unless there's a rat in here."
He stared down each man in the room. One by one. Lingering just long enough to let the pressure sink in. The secretary was the only one he didn't bother with. Her loyalty wasn't in question.
"Alright," he growled. "Now, get the fuck out of my office."
Everyone filed out. The guards posted back up at the door. The newbie limped a little as he followed the rest.
Roman stayed at the window, watching the city like a man itching to set it on fire.
"How about we set a trap for that cocksucker…" he said, almost to himself.
The secretary, always ready, replied smoothly. "What do you have in mind, sir?"
He didn't turn to face her.
"Send out fake intel. Drop point in a remote location. Leak it like it's the real deal. Then have those Fearsome idiots waiting. Make sure it's messy."
"Understood."
What Roman didn't know—what no one in that room knew, was that Jason Todd was listening too.
At his safehouse, Red Hood sat cleaning his gear. Guns laid out on the table. Knives sharpened to perfection. A small transponder sat beside him, streaming the same feed from a hidden bug he'd planted.
Jason smirked as he checked a magazine and muttered to himself, "Sounds like a date."
Back in Roman's office, the secretary kept going, flipping to the next item on her screen.
"What about the dealers refusing to pay their fees?"
Roman didn't even blink.
"Drag one of 'em in. Make an example. Let the rest see what happens."
"Consider it done."
And just like that, the room went quiet again—Gotham's crime boss already spinning his next move in the shadows of a city that never ran out of blood to spill.
Oh sweet—sweet Gotham, how cruel and unforgiving it is.
- - -
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