"No way he deliberately dodged that. He must've just been shifting out of position when I fired. Yeah…a fluke. That's all it was." The thought pressed through Deadshot's head as he adjusted his scope, his gloved hand steadying the rifle against the ledge of the rooftop.
His one visible eye narrowed behind the scope's reflection, determined not to leave any room for error this time.
Across the street, crouched low with his back against the soot-stained bricks of a chimney, Red Hood slowed his breathing. His helmet gave nothing away, but beneath the crimson mask his jaw was tight, as the weight of Deadshot's crosshairs prickled across his skin like an observed pressure.
He knew the assassin was recalculating, already angling for the next shot. Jason couldn't let him lock in again.
His armor could take a round—mostly. Kevlar-lined plating covered his vitals, his helmet reinforced enough to absorb a bullet or two. But there were still gaps: the neck, the joints, the places no armor could truly protect. He wasn't about to test what would happen if Deadshot slipped one through.
The sharp clang of a bullet ricocheting off a nearby signal dish broke his thoughts. Jason hit the rooftop hard, belly flat against the gravel, as another round chewed into the brick where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. Dust and chipped mortar rained down over him.
He was out of sight—but not out of reach.
"No body drop," Deadshot muttered, peering through his scope, scanning. His voice was low, self-assured, like he was narrating his own hunt. "You're slippery, but that's fine. You only get lucky once."
Jason had already caught the faint muzzle flash from Deadshot's position. He traced the angle back, gauging distance and trajectory in seconds. In one fluid motion, he rose from behind the chimney, pistol raised, and fired two quick shots into the dark.
"Oh, shit," Deadshot hissed, jerking his head down as bullets cracked against the ledge around him. He ducked back into cover, lips curling into a humorless grin beneath his mask.
"Guess he's not a total amateur." When he peeked again, Red Hood was gone. The rooftop chimney stood alone, silent, and the shadows offered no trace of his quarry. Deadshot's smirk returned as he rose into a crouch, moving with predatory patience from rooftop to rooftop. His boots landed soundlessly, his scope never drifting from the brick chimney.
He found a vantage point that gave him a clean line. His lips curved beneath the mask, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Ten million for this sucker's head…like taking candy from a baby." He slid into position, sighting the chimney.
But the spot was empty.
"And who's the baby in this case?" The voice came from behind, low and mocking. Deadshot's muscles jolted as if struck by electricity. He spun, dropping his rifle instinctively while springing backward to create distance. His wrist snapped up, the mounted firearm on his forearm clicking alive.
"Son of a—"
Rapid bursts tore through the air, muzzle flares lighting the rooftop in brief strobes. Red Hood darted between the lines of fire, his body weaving with fluid, unpredictable movements. To Deadshot, it looked like a phantom flickering in and out of reach, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
"What the hell are you?" Floyd spat, sweat beading under his mask.
By the time he registered the thought, Red Hood was already at arm's length. A crowbar flashed in the moonlight. Jason swung it hard, knocking Deadshot's arms wide before the assassin could aim again. Floyd grunted, snapping a desperate kick at Jason's knee to slow him down.
Jason met it halfway with his own boot, force against force, neutralizing the strike with a violent crack. Before Floyd could recover, a headbutt slammed into his mask. The impact rattled his skull, stars exploding in his vision, followed by a savage kick straight between his legs.
Pain ripped through him like hot flames. His breath punched out in a choked grunt, his body folding as his knees buckled.
"Ouugh—time out!" Floyd rasped, clutching his groin with both hands as he staggered down onto one knee. His voice broke with raw pain. "Jesus Christ, man…time out!"
Jason tilted his head, his helmet gleaming in the moonlight. "Did you just call time out?" His tone was mocking disbelief as his crowbar rested casually against his shoulder.
"I think you crushed a nut," Deadshot wheezed, face twisted with agony behind the mask. He half-laughed, half-coughed, swaying like he was drunk. The dizziness from the headbutt blurred his vision, and the pain below the belt felt like a sledgehammer to his soul.
Jason crouched slightly, his voice dropping lower. "And I won't just crush the other one. I'll castrate you outright for having the balls to come after me." Slowly, with deliberate menace, he slid his sword free, the blade whispering against its sheath as moonlight caught the steel. His presence radiated bloodlust, the type that tightened the air itself.
"Oh, shit," Floyd muttered, another shiver clawing up his spine. He forced a shaky grin, masking fear with bravado. "Thanks for the offer, but I'd like to keep my jewels. I'm kind of attached to them."
Jason didn't laugh.
In a desperate burst, Deadshot flipped backward, forearm gun blazing. Bullets ripped through the night, sparks flying as they clanged against Jason's blade. He twisted and deflected, side-stepping with precise economy of movement.
Jason's arm snapped forward, crowbar spinning through the air. Deadshot landed from his flip just as it punched clean through his right boot, pinning him to the rooftop with a metallic thunk.
"Son of a—!" Floyd roared in pain, trying to wrench his foot free. He raised his arm to fire, but Jason was already there. A knife pressed cold and sharp against his throat, biting into the fabric of his collar and nicking skin.
Floyd froze. His one visible eye went wide.
"I'd give up if I were you," Red Hood growled with a low and dangerous tone. "Wouldn't want little Zoey growing up without her daddy, just because you thought ten million was worth your balls and your life."
At the mention of his daughter, Floyd's heart kicked hard in his chest. His bravado slipped as his eye widened even more, fear mingling with shock. He realized Jason knew his real life, his family, details men weren't supposed to know. He'd fought plenty of killers before—but this was different.
"Just who the hell are you?" Floyd whispered, his voice was stripped of arrogance. There was no bluff left to make, no empty threat about what would happen if Jason touched his little girl. The blade at his throat made the danger very, very real.
Jason leaned in closer, the edge of his knife pressing just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "Someone you shouldn't mess with," he said, with his voice sounding like gravel through the modulator. "And if I ever feel your crosshairs on me again, I'll gouge your eyes out and mail them to your daughter."
Deadshot swallowed hard, the blade coldly pressed against his skin. The rooftop was silent, except for the faint sound of distant sirens echoing through Gotham's streets below.
And in that silence, Floyd Lawton realized—Red Hood wasn't bluffing.
He let go and walked toward the edge of the rooftop when Deadshot called out, gritting his teeth as he tried to wrench the crowbar free from the concrete and out of his foot. "Wait—dammit, you can't just leave me like this. Help me take this out." His voice cracked under the strain, but he forced it to sound more annoyed than desperate.
Jason stopped at the ledge, his silhouette carved against the pale wash of Gotham's moonlight. "Souvenir," he said flatly, his voice distorted through the modulator, carrying a tone that made the word feel less like a joke and more like a curse. "Something to remember me by, Floyd."
Deadshot froze at the sound of his real name, still not used to this. His hands tightening instinctively on the bent shaft of steel. His eyes widened beneath the mask despite his best effort to remain composed.
Jason tilted his head just slightly, just enough for Floyd to catch the faint gleam of the red bat stamped across his chest armor as he shifted. That was enough to make Deadshot's stomach sink. Bat-family.
That complicated everything. Jason stepped off the ledge a heartbeat later, vanishing into the night as if gravity didn't apply to him.
For the first time in minutes, Floyd felt like he could breathe again. The suffocating weight of Red Hood's presence was gone, like someone had lifted a blade away from his throat, literally. His instincts screamed that the man wanted to tear him apart, and worse, would've enjoyed it. Every nerve ending told him he had been a hair away from death.
And yet—he was still alive.
Why?
That question gnawed at him more than the pain.
He tried to steady his hands as he yanked on the crowbar, groaning when it wouldn't budge. "Son of a bitch…" His frustration came out in mutters, but deep down he was rattled.
Batman had a reputation, sure, but Batman never carried himself like this—never radiated that bloodthirst. Red Hood was different. He was Bat, but wrong. He fought like someone who knew exactly what bones to break and which arteries to cut, but he chose not to. That restraint felt like a warning.
"Black Mask better triple that bounty," Floyd muttered under his breath. "Ten million isn't worth this job, not with him out here."
He gave one last violent pull at the crowbar when something cold pressed against his wrist. Floyd froze.
Jason was back.
Deadshot hadn't even heard him return. One second he was alone, the next, Red Hood was crouched in front of him, one hand pinning his wrist down with casual force.
"You don't listen well, Floyd," Jason said. His tone was almost conversational, but his eyes behind the mask were cold. "When I tell you I'm leaving something with you, it's not a negotiation."
With a swift, brutal motion, Jason stomped on the end of Floyd's wrist-mounted rifle, snapping the metal frame like it was cheap plastic. The weapon sparked, pieces bending and crunching until it was nothing but twisted wreckage. Floyd winced, his jaw tightening, but he didn't make a sound. He knew showing pain would only make things worse.
Jason leaned closer, close enough that Floyd could see the faint scratches on the Red Hood helmet where bullets maybe blades, had once failed. "Now you're going to walk away from this job, because next time I don't stop at your toy. Next time, it's your hand."
Deadshot swallowed hard, forcing a strained laugh. "You got a funny way of sending messages. You ever think about just… texting?"
Jason smirked under the helmet, but his voice stayed hard. "Nah. Texts don't really send the message." He emphasized on the word, send.
Then, as quickly as he came, Jason was gone again, stepping back into the night with the kind of silent speed that Floyd hated most in Bat-trained freaks. He left behind nothing but the broken weapon, the crowbar pinning Floyd to the ground, and a silence heavy enough to choke on as blood pooled beneath him.
Floyd let out a long, shaky breath once he was sure the bastard was truly gone this time. His body ached, his pride worse, and the job wasn't even close to worth it anymore.
"Worst Halloween ever," he muttered again, this time sounding more like he meant it as he looked at the blood spilling from his boot.
- - -
The night wasn't over—not in Gotham, and certainly not on Halloween.
A sleek black sedan rolled up in front of a quiet uptown house. Its engine idled for a moment before purring away into the distance, leaving Ms. Li standing beneath the cool orange glow of the streetlight.
She stepped gracefully onto the walkway, heels tapping against the polished stone path that cut through her manicured garden. The air was sharp with autumn chill, the faint sound of laughter and fireworks from distant neighborhoods floating through the night.
She unlocked the door with a practiced twist of her wrist, stepping inside with the type of poise that made it look as though even her fatigue was intentional. The keys clinked as she dropped them onto a silver tray held by a miniature cat statue stationed at the end of the hallway. Her coat slid off her shoulders in one smooth motion, draped over her arm as she reached for the light switch.
The room illuminated in a warm glow, and her breath caught.
There he was. Red Hood. Sitting casually in her favorite reading chair like it belonged to him, a book in his hands as though he were nothing more than a guest waiting for her return.
She blinked, her mind refusing to process it at first. Out of instinct—or denial—she flicked the lights off again, standing in darkness. For a fleeting second she told herself it was exhaustion, a trick of the eyes after a long night.
She turned the lights back on. He waved.
"Really?" she said, her voice flat and composed. "A book in the middle of the dark?"
Jason tilted his head back lazily, his helmet gleaming under the chandelier. "For aesthetics," he said, tossing the book with casual precision onto a nearby shelf. The thunk echoed. "Working this late, on a holiday no less? Either your boss is trying to bury you in paperwork, or you had a date tonight."
"I manage a corporation," she replied evenly, walking with unhurried strides toward the kitchen. Her heels clicked softly against the polished wood floor. "I get off when the work for the day is done. I'd offer you a drink, but you're an uninvited guest."
"Fair enough," Jason said with a shrug, his tone dry, almost amused.
Ms. Li poured herself a glass of water, her movements calm and calculated. She didn't look at him directly, but she studied his reflection faintly in the glossy surface of the kitchen counter. He wasn't here to kill her. If he wanted to, she'd already be a corpse on the floor. That alone made his presence more unsettling.
"So," she said, finally turning to face him, her glass held loosely in her hand. "To what do I owe this visit? Or is Red Hood branching out into social calls these days?"
Her calmness made him grin under the mask. Few people kept their composure when he paid a visit.
"You know your boss is going to be dead soon," Jason began casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Maybe this week, maybe next."
Her brow arched, a silent gesture telling him to continue.
Jason leaned back in the chair with his voice low and unhurried. "When he goes, there's going to be a power vacuum in his part of Gotham. The struggle to fill it, would be ugly. The kind of ugly that forces me to keep painting rooftops and certain areas red until Christmas.
But if you step in—if you take the empire you already run in everything but name—I won't have to keep carving my way through bodies. Gotham gets a little less bloody. I get fewer headaches."
"A coup," she said smoothly, sipping her water without breaking eye contact. "Interesting proposal. It almost sounds like desperation. I suppose that bounty put you in a tight spot after all."
Jason chuckled under his breath, then stood, brushing a gloved hand down the front of his jacket. "Desperation? No. If anything, I should be thanking your boss. His little stunt is building my reputation faster than I expected. Tonight alone, I taught Deadshot a valuable lesson. Imagine him—Deadshot—walking away from me and warning others to think twice about cashing in. That's worth more than the ten million."
Ms. Li let out a quiet hum, her expression was unreadable. "I always pegged you as cocky. Glad to see I was right." She tilted her head slightly, her free hand tracing slowly beneath the lip of the counter where her pistol was hidden. "But a coup against Black Mask? Not my style."
Jason's helmet turned toward her sharply, and for the first time his voice carried weight. "If you're reaching for the gun under that counter, I'd advise against it. You'd have better luck fishing for dragons in the East River."
He started toward her, each step slow, deliberate, the weight of his presence filling the room more than his words. Halfway across the space he stopped, letting silence stretch between them before he spoke again. "Think about it. I'll be back."
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "I never imagined you as the type to use doors."
Jason reached for the knob, his back to her. "Civility's all the rage these days."
With that, he walked out into the halloween night as calmly as someone leaving a friend's house after a casual visit, his mask gleaming like a jack-o'-lantern under the moonlight.