"Any news yet?" Roman Sionis asked his secretary, his voice sharp and restless, betraying the nerves he tried so hard to mask. He was pacing behind his desk, the dim office light glinting off the carved lines of his black mask.
"No," she answered simply.
"I thought one of those bastards would've killed him already! Or are they waiting till it's goddamn Halloween to make it dramatic?" Roman's shout carried across the room, his tone dripping with anger and desperation. His hands twitched as if itching to grab something to smash.
"I highly doubt it, sir," Ms. Li replied, her tone steady, almost bored. She had grown used to his tantrums, his outbursts no longer carrying the shock value he seemed to think they did. "If he were that easy to track, we wouldn't be caught in this endless back-and-forth with him."
"I put a bounty on that bastard's head," Roman snapped, slamming his hand against the desk. "So now it's either one of those greedy vultures kills him first… or he gets to me before they do."
"Well, you should've thought of that before making a move like that." The words slipped out sharp and honest, something she had been holding back for hours. But she knew she couldn't keep bottling it up. Her boss was reckless, impulsive—anger always dictating his hand before reason could temper it.
If he had just waited the hour and cooled off after that disastrous meeting, if he had returned to his office, she might've been able to talk him down. Instead, he'd gone ahead with his usual instinct to lash out first and think later.
Roman wheeled on her, fists tight. "What did you expect me to do? Hire another band of assassins? Comb through the market for washed-up mercs who'll charge me an arm and a leg for nothing but excuses? No! Absolutely not." His voice shook with the force of his reasoning, irrational yet—at least to him—utterly logical.
"Hell no," he continued, pacing now like a caged animal. "I'd rather put the money out there, let the whole city know there's someone willing to pay for that fucker's head. That way, all of them get to work, competing with each other. Eventually someone succeeds, gets a one-time payout, and I don't waste another dime on failure."
Ms. Li's face remained neutral, but her mind was weary. His logic was hollow, little more than a gamble with his own life as the stake. But he was her employer. All she could do was nod politely, pretending to agree with his warped sense of strategy. Fighting him on it wasn't worth the stress—or the risk.
Without another word, she left his office, the sound of the heavy door closing behind her a relief. She signed off work for the night, her body craving release from the long day. She needed a drink—something strong enough to wash away her frustration.
The city was damp with leftover rain, neon signs reflecting in thin puddles that clung stubbornly to the sidewalks. The prestigious bar she favored wasn't far, tucked into the corner of a polished street where expensive cars lined the curb and the sound of muffled jazz drifted from within.
Pushing open the heavy door, she stepped into warm golden light and low chatter. The smell of oak-aged liquor clung to the air. She made her way straight to the counter, sliding her coat from her shoulders and hanging it neatly over the chair before sitting down.
By the time she settled onto the barstool, a glass of whiskey was already placed in front of her, ice cubes clinking softly inside. She blinked at it, caught off guard. "I haven't ordered yet," she said flatly.
The bartender tilted his head toward the far end of the counter. "Oh, someone bought you that drink."
Her eyes narrowed. She rolled them almost immediately, already tired of men attempting the same predictable gesture. She was on the verge of rejecting it when she saw him—Randy. Or Jason, though she knew him only by the name he'd given. That streak of white in his dark hair was unmistakable, catching in the bar's warm light.
"Thanks for the drink," she said, lifting the glass with a measured hand.
"Of course," he replied smoothly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to feel genuine. "You looked like you could use one." His gaze lingered a moment longer, studying her with a quiet ease before adding, "Maybe a couple more."
She arched a brow at that. "You could tell?" Most people couldn't read her at all; she had perfected the art of appearing untouchable, unreadable. But here he was, cutting right through that armor with an offhand remark.
Jason gave a small shrug, leaning back casually. "You've got a different look in your eyes than last night. Like something's weighing on you. You seem… bothered."
It was unsettling, being read so easily, but she didn't let it show. She raised the glass and took a sip, her expression unreadable as ever. "Work has been annoying lately," she said finally, her tone even, her words stripped of emotion.
That was enough to start their conversation. They went back and forth as the night deepened, whiskey glasses refilled and emptied while the hum of the bar faded into background noise. She was surprised at herself—surprised at how much she enjoyed speaking with him. There was something unpolished, direct, and strangely calming about him.
Eventually, Jason glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. "I'd love to sit here and talk all night, but I've still got a long night ahead of me." He stood, pulling his jacket from the chair and swinging it onto his shoulders with practiced ease.
"You're leaving already?" she asked, a hint of disappointment slipping through before she could stop it. She wasn't used to wanting more conversation.
"Yeah," he said with a half-smile, sliding his arms into the jacket. "Promised I'd take my kid brother somewhere tonight."
Her brows lifted slightly. "A responsible older brother, huh?"
Jason chuckled, a teasing spark in his eyes. "I don't know about responsible. But I do what I can." He locked eyes with her as he adjusted his collar, his smirk laced with a subtle charm. "See you around. Hopefully next time you're in a better mood."
And then he was gone, leaving her with a strange sense of emptiness she couldn't name. She sat quietly for a moment, sipping what was left of her drink, before realizing with a small jolt that she was—against her better judgment—attracted to him. That thought lingered long after he disappeared into the city night.
Meanwhile, Jason slipped out into the damp streets, his expression hardening as he ducked into a dark alley. His jacket shifted, and by the time he emerged again he was no longer Randy but Red Hood—helmet on, weapons strapped, moving with the calm confidence of a predator. He headed straight for the rendezvous point.
"You're late," Damian said sharply, perched on the rooftop edge with his arms crossed. His tone was sharp, annoyed, the kind of irritation that masked curiosity.
Jason waved him off casually. "Relax, kid. I was having a drink with a pretty girl."
Damian didn't even want to know. His frown deepened. "Moving on. Why'd you drag me out here tonight?"
Jason tilted his head, as if the question caught him off guard. "I don't know. Maybe to show off." Even his answer carried no real conviction, as though he hadn't fully thought it through himself.
"Show off?" Damian's eyes narrowed, skeptical. He didn't like vague games.
Jason pointed down at the street below, where a neon bar sign flickered against the darkness. "You see that place? Probably packed with idiots who know about the bounty. Idiots stupid enough to think they can claim it."
And without waiting for Damian's reply, Jason stepped off the rooftop. The kid's scowl deepened as he leaned forward to watch. Seconds later, Red Hood strolled through the front door of the bar, movements deliberate, relaxed, like a man walking into his own living room.
It took less than a minute before the bar erupted. Bodies came crashing through the windows and doors, thrown into the street with violent force. Screams followed, mixed with the sharp crack of furniture breaking. And then Jason walked out calmly, brushing glass from his jacket as if it were lint. A small mob of thugs and bounty-hunters poured out after him, weapons drawn, faces twisted with greed and bloodlust as they surrounded him under the pale streetlight.
The hunters had thought numbers would save them. That confidence shattered the moment Jason dropped the first two bodies. But instead of fear clearing the rest, desperation made them reckless. A bounty that high drew out men who had nothing left to lose.
Jason stood in the rain-slick street, chest rising slow and steady beneath his jacket, while the circle closed tighter. His pistols gleamed under the streetlights, barrels smoking faintly.
"Still here?" Jason taunted, holstering one gun and reaching behind his belt. "Fine. Let's make this interesting."
In a fluid motion, he pulled a small disk and flung it low across the pavement. It clinked once—then erupted in a sharp crack, spraying a flash of light and smoke. The hunters staggered back, coughing, blinded. Jason dove into the haze like a wolf in fog.
Damian leaned forward on the rooftop, eyes narrowing. His mind catalogued everything—smoke deployment, timing, angles. Father would have used it for cover and disengaged. Jason used it to slaughter.
A scream cut through the smoke. Jason had yanked one man into a chokehold, driving his combat knife deep between the ribs before kicking the limp body into another.
The smoke swirled around them like a shroud, broken only by muzzle flashes as Jason fired into shadows. The shots weren't wasted—Damian could tell from the pattern, from the way bodies dropped as the smoke thinned.
"Calculated chaos," Damian muttered under his breath. His chest tightened, a strange pang running through him. He hated admitting it, but it was genius. Terrifying genius.
The haze cleared just in time for the next wave to charge. Jason flipped a switch on his belt and tossed something metallic. A sharp click echoed—then a concussive blast sent hunters sprawling like ragdolls. One man's leg bent grotesquely beneath him; another slammed against a dumpster and didn't move again.
Jason strode forward through the wreckage, calm, deliberate. "You boys ever stop to think why no one collects this bounty?" His voice carried, low and cold. "Because every time, it ends like this."
A hunter scrambled to his knees, pulling a knife with shaking hands. Jason didn't even break stride. He snapped a grapple line to the man's wrist, yanked it hard enough to tear ligaments, then reeled him in only to drive a boot straight into his skull. The crack echoed down the alley.
Damian's hands curled into fists. Every move screamed dominance. Jason wasn't beating them alone, he was breaking them. He was teaching. Every snap of bone, every scream of pain, it was psychological warfare aimed not at the ones lying in blood, but at the survivors still clinging to their courage.
And Damian could see it working.
The last few hunters hesitated. Their weapons shook. Some even backed away.
Jason holstered his pistols, deliberately. He wanted them to see it. To think he was giving them a chance. Then he reached into his jacket and drew out a crowbar. The sight of it alone made some freeze like deer in headlights. Jason twirled it once, casually.
"Now," he said, his voice heavy with cruel amusement, "let's see how much you really want that money."
What followed wasn't a fight. It was an execution line. Jason smashed knees, shattered jaws, and left grown men screaming for their mothers. The sound of metal hitting flesh rang out in the alley like church bells, relentless and rhythmic.
Damian's heart thudded harder than he expected as he watched. His training told him this was excess. Sloppy. Wasteful. But his gut… his gut told him it was power. Raw, undeniable power. A presence that no cape, no code, no emblem of justice could ever match.
And for the first time, Damian felt the edges of doubt creep into his mind. His father taught control. The League taught precision. But Jason Todd—the Red Hood—showed him domination.
And maybe, just maybe, there was something in him that wanted that more than either.
When the last hunter lay broken and whimpering on the pavement, Jason let the crowbar drop with a clatter. He stood over the wreckage of men, chest heaving slightly, rain dripping red from his gloves. Then, almost instinctively, his helmet tilted up—toward the rooftop.
Damian froze.
Jason didn't speak this time. He just stared, the glowing eyes of his helmet locking with Damian's. No words. No taunts. Just a silent challenge, heavy as the night itself.
Damian swallowed hard. And for the first time in years… he felt small.
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