The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason didn't react with surprise. He'd expected the answer—even if he didn't like it. Still, he knew there had to be more to it than that.

His reflection paused, as if deliberately giving him time to sit with the revelation. Then it spoke again.

"I am more like your shadow-self. You could say I'm the part of your soul that was pushed down," it said calmly, "so the personality you woke up as could exist after the Lazarus Pit brought you back."

It tilted its head slightly.

"You were resurrected as a hollow body, with no memories, no sense of self—driven by a raw, instinctive need to fill the void the Pit left behind."

Jason stayed silent with his jaw clenched tight.

Taking that as permission to continue, the reflection pressed on.

"Your mind, wiped clean, was caught in a tug-of-war. On one side, the overwhelming hunger left by the Lazarus Pit. On the other, the moral framework Bruce drilled into us—Bruce, the only person we'd truly opened our heart to since our mother died."

Jason narrowed his eyes, turning the words over in his head.

It sounded insane. Absurd. And yet… it fit too cleanly to dismiss outright. He didn't fully believe it—but for the first time, he felt like he was being handed an explanation that wanted to make sense.

'Well. Everything about my life has been absurd.' Jason thought dryly as the man in the mirror went on.

"As a result of that internal conflict," the reflection said, "I was bound deep within your subconscious—chained there, waiting for the moment I could break free and surface again."

The words stirred memories Jason hadn't consciously reached for.

The League's first mission. The secluded island. The crime lord's compound. The metahuman guard who should have killed him outright. Jason remembered his vision blurring, blood spilling down his face, the world turning red as consciousness slipped—

—and the sound of chains.

He'd seen his shadow-self then. Had felt it.

Another memory followed. The bear attack. The gash across his mid torso. Darkness closing in, until he'd opened his eyes in the depths of the Lazarus Pit, the last thing he'd seen before blacking out being that same shadow-self watching him fade.

Both times, he'd been standing on the threshold of death. Either heading to, or right at the door.

'Damn,' he thought, a humorless edge creeping in as he realized how toobmany times he has almost lost his life. 'I really do have a habit of courting death.'

Even so, he could tell the reflection was holding something back. Not with malice, not like the bandaged figure, but with intent.

"So," Jason said at last, eyebrow arching, his tone edged with disbelief, "you're saying you're the real me?"

"Not exactly," the reflection replied.

Its expression twisted—subtly at first, then unmistakably.

"Let's just say…"

The grin that followed was sharp, malevolent.

The air thickened around Jason, pressing against his chest, and for the first time since waking, he found himself struggling to draw a full breath as he found himself at the receiving side of his bloodlusful aura.

"I am the man you become when you put on the hood."

Jason's eyes widened.

He'd suspected the figure in the mirror was the one taking control whenever he blacked out, but this was something else entirely. If that was true, then maybe the decisions he made, the emotions he felt, even the way his thoughts aligned whenever he wore the hood… all of it flowed from this version of himself.

Which raised a far more unsettling question.

'Then who am I?'

Who was Jason Todd?

And who, exactly, was the Red Hood?

He forced himself to steady his breathing, reining in the spiral of thoughts. The reflection felt fleeting—like it could vanish at any moment—and Jason still had too many unanswered questions.

One in particular clawed its way back to the surface. The words spoken by the bandage-wrapped demon.

"Why do I have a white streak in my hair," Jason asked, "but you don't?"

The reflection folded its arms, chin lifting as though looking down at him. Its expression settled into something neutral as it raised a hand to stroke its chin, considering.

"You already understand the basics," it said at last. "But I'll give you my interpretation."

It paused.

"It could be the result of extreme psychological trauma—what your mind and soul endured in purgatory, compounded by the strain of resurrection."

Then, more quietly, it added, "Or it could be because your soul was touched by Lady Death herself… after you won the fight for it."

Jason's expression tightened.

"It might be one," the reflection concluded. "Or the other. Or both."

Jason sank into thought, memories rising unbidden.

The abyssal void. Purgatory. The version of himself he'd met there—the one who claimed to be his conscience. The part of him that had kept him alive, that 'would' have kept him alive even longer if Jason hadn't rushed headlong toward Joker that night.

That version had mocked him. Dragged him through his own memories while dealing a series of blows of brutal honesty. Then they'd fought—not with fists alone, but with will—for the right to exist as Jason Todd.

The son of Batman, beaten to death by the Joker…

Or the part of him that had been buried beneath Bruce's teachings—rules about lines that should never be crossed, restraint demanded even when criminals gave him every reason to abandon it.

Two selves.

One name.

One body, and an internal war that never truly ended.

He had wanted—so badly—to tread that line, to flirt with it just a little. That part of him, the side twisted by wrath and vengeance, could have won the fight. If it had, there was no telling what he might have become—back at the League, or worse… as the Red Hood.

"That should be enough for now. Until next ti—"

"One more question."

Jason cut him off before the reflection could vanish, earning an exasperated sigh in return.

"What is it?"

"Who… is the demon wrapped in bandages?"

The mirror's expression shifted instantly, darkening in a way Jason had never seen before. The casual, mocking demeanor vanished, replaced by something cold, serious.

"Do not… ever ask me about him," it replied.

Jason swallowed hard. Everything he'd learned so far had hinted at the creature being an unknown—but instinct told him it was something darker. Something that wanted his soul.

He theorized: perhaps the demon had been drawn to his soul by the Lazarus Pit, clinging to his essence during resurrection. Or maybe it was the physical manifestation of the bloodlust left within him by the Pit.

"You already know who—or rather, what—he is," the reflection added.

Jason's jaw tightened in frustration, but he stayed silent, letting it continue.

"What happened to your mind and soul is far more complicated than I've explained. Only he can give you the clues you need. Only he can reveal his true identity—and perhaps help fill in the three-year gap in your memories… and show you who the real enemy is."

Jason blinked, drowning in confusion. Just as he had begun to grasp even a fragment of understanding, the reflection suggested something that terrified him: he would have to confront his inner demon, literally, if he hoped to uncover the full truth.

"Wait… the true enemy?" The words stumbled out, weighed heavy with disbelief and curiousity.

With a sarcastic wave, the reflection dismissed him. "Let it go. Don't dwell on it. Remember… Joker wasn't the only hunt."

Jason straightened, shaking off the swirl of wandering thoughts. He forced himself to refocus, letting the reflection's words settle into the corner of his mind as he focused his attention.

"Don't you think the Red Hood has teased his little prey enough?" Mirror Jason said, smirking, the hint in his tone barely hidden.

"Roman," Jason muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as thoughts of Black Mask surfaced. He had provoked, manipulated, and pushed the crime lord until Joker had been delivered on a silver platter.

Now it was time to dismantle the rest of him, another piece of Gotham's filth to be scrapped off the streets.

"Good to know Joker's death hasn't made you complacent," Mirror Jason said, voice smooth and honeyed, hypnotic almost, landing exactly where Jason's desires, and his ambitions were. "It isn't over yet."

He gestured vaguely, halfway raising his arms. "A revamp of Black Mask's empire under your sovereignty… would cement your influence over more of Gotham's streets. Just saying." And then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the seed he knew Jason would nurture.

Jason lingered in front of the mirror, his eyes fixed on his reflection, the white streak cutting through his hair like a mark of everything he had endured.

"Sh*t," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Forgot to ask how I even got this boost in… everything." His mind buzzed with unanswered questions.

Not just about himself, or the mysterious "true enemy," but about what came next—how things would unfold with Batman, with the others, now that Joker was finally gone.

He left the bathroom and slipped into bed wearing nothing but his underwear.

Hours passed, and sleep refused him. He twisted, turned, rolled—changing position endlessly as his thoughts chased themselves in circles.

The encounter in the tub lingered in his mind, gnawing at him. He couldn't shake the fear that something similar might happen once he finally drifted off.

Eventually, he returned to the night's work: replaying what he had done to Joker, the finality of the clown's madness, and his long awaited revenge.

Less than half an hour later, exhaustion finally claimed him. His body relaxed, a faint, almost serene expression settling across his face as he drifted into sleep.

- - -

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, washing his room in a golden glow. Jason stirred, stretching as if he had slept a full night without a single worry. For once, it felt like the weight of the city had lifted, even if just for a moment.

Even after everything his shadow self had told him the night before—the truths about who he was, the demons he carried—he felt lighter. There was a spring in his step, a sense of accomplishment that only came from finally waking up to a Joker-free world. Breakfast somehow tasted better, sweeter, more flavourful, more alive.

He wasn't planning to spend the day hunting Black Mask, not today. And sitting at home wasn't appealing either. Grabbing the remote, he lazily flipped through channels, half-looking, half-thinking about how best to spend his time.

"Li should be out of custody by now," he muttered, reaching for his phone. A few taps later, he dialed Mayor Stuart.

The call wasn't about pleasantries, or to thank him for his ignorant and unwilling contribution to the death of Joker. Jason's instructions was clear: make sure Li wasn't being dragged into Black Mask's web. On paper, she was just a secretary at his cosmetic company—a legal business, a legitimate front for his illegal activities.

A few pointed reminders, a subtle hint of what could happen if the Mayor failed to pull the right strings… and Li's protection was secured. She had her own network, sure, but Jason didn't want her tied to any illegal activity—at least, not on record.

He had plans for her to take over the empire upon the death of Black Mask, so he played that move to ensure the law wouldn't have anything on her.

Satisfied, he tossed the phone onto the couch and wandered to the window. Taking a deep breath as the city sprawled beneath him, with Gotham's skyline ever so jagged against the morning sky.

Streets teemed with life, cars crawling along avenues, people getting on with their daily lives. He might as well get on with he's.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The morning news blared from every screen in Gotham, the headline dominating every channel: 'Joker Dead at the Hands of Red Hood.' For decades, no one had managed such a feat. The Clown Prince of Crime, the city's most notorious nightmare, had finally been silenced—permanently.

For Gotham's citizens, it felt like a new era had begun. The streets would no longer echo with that maniacal laughter. Families could walk freely without the constant fear that Joker might escape from Arkham only to target them—or someone they loved.

The city's collective nightmare had ended, and for a fleeting moment, they all rejoiced within their hearts.

The media speculated, as they always did, that Black Mask had played a role in Joker's recent escape from Arkham. But there was no hard evidence, no concrete proof to validate the rumors. Just the kind of conjecture that thrived in Gotham's rumor mills.

Behind the scenes, Roman Sionis's legal troubles were quietly resolved. His team of lawyers worked methodically, flipping the narrative so that Black Mask appeared not as a co-conspirator but as a victim of Joker's chaos. A few well-placed pressures and discreetly greased palms later, Roman walked free.

Even Commissioner Gordon, as determined as he was, had little recourse. The city's legal system could only do so much when wealth and influence had already tilted the scales. One of the perks of being wealthy and well-connected in Gotham's upper echelons.

Of course, Roman's release came with consequences. The stock of his cosmetic company, the legitimate front for his far darker dealings, had taken a small hit during the controversy. But it was a minor setback, a blip on the radar compared to how much cash he would be railing in once he finally got rid of the Red Hood.

To the public eye, the Red Hood was no longer viewed as just the violent but contained threat he had once been portrayed as by earlier news coverage.

Joker's death had altered that perception irrevocably. What had once been speculation and rumor was now fact: the Red Hood was capable of ending even Gotham's most infamous monsters, and he would not hesitate to do so.

That realization fractured the city's opinion of him.

Across Gotham, perspectives diverged om different sense. Many saw the Red Hood as a dangerous vigilante walking a razor's edge, one step away from being branded a full-fledged criminal himself. His methods were brutal, and unchecked by law.

Yet for others—citizens worn down by years of recycled violence, his extremity represented the change Gotham had long been denied. To them, he wasn't the problem; he was the answer.

The broadcast cut to footage from the bridge that night. A reporter stood amid flashing lights and police tape, microphone extended toward a civilian who had witnessed the chaos firsthand. When asked what he thought of the wave the Red Hood had unleashed upon Gotham, the man spoke with blunt conviction.

He talked about Batman—about how the Dark Knight had fought criminals relentlessly for years, breaking bones and dragging them off the streets, only for the same names to resurface time and time again. He added the statement that Batman had gone soft compared to his earlier days as a vigilante.

According to him, the Red Hood was exactly what Gotham needed now: someone willing to end the cycle rather than preserve it.

Several voices around him murmured in agreement. Others shouted over the crowd, condemning the Red Hood as too dangerous, too unstable to be allowed free rein over the city, saying the police should lock up his ass.

While Gotham debated, the underworld listened—and took note of the change that has been on the rise for the past couple of months.

Within the criminal networks that thrived beneath the city, the Red Hood's name carried new weight. His reputation spread quickly, earning him an unprecedented level of prestige, recognition, and fear among Gotham's underbelly.

Some, particularly those who had never encountered him firsthand, dismissed the stories. They believed he relied on fear as a tool, cultivating a legend to keep others in line. To them, he was all bark and no bite, another masked figure exaggerating his cruelty to intimidate rivals.

That belief died the moment Joker's death became undeniable.

If the Red Hood was unhinged enough to kill the Clown Prince of Crime, something no one had managed to accomplish for decades—then he was no bluff. Fear took root in their minds despite their resistance, as a grim truth which the others have tried to tell them— settled in: this was not just another vigilante.

This was Batman without restraint.

For years, criminals had continued operating despite Batman's presence because they understood the limits. He would break them, cripple them, leave them hospitalized for months—but he would never cross the line of taking a life. As long as they could still breathe, there was always another chance to return to the streets. Crime was not just a profession to them; it was a way of life.

The Red Hood erased that certainty.

If he put a bullet in someone's head, there was no recovery or even a prison sentence, just the end of their life.

Now, Gotham's criminals were forced to live with a new reality. They no longer feared only the Bat or the law. They feared the Red Hood, a presence lurking somewhere in the city, one none of them ever hoped to encounter because he was basically Batman with lethal wespons he wouldn't hesitate to use.

- - -

[The Batcave]

Dick's fingers clicked continuously on the mouse, switching from one news channel to another. Every monitor displayed the same story: Red Hood. Headlines flashed across the screens, all echoing the same message.

"Great," Dick muttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Looks like your son is officially on Gotham's list of big bads." He extended an arm, pressing a button to mute the monitors, the reports no longer needing to compete for his attention.

"Gone soft?" Damian interjected, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he considered the words of a civilian who clearly had no understanding of what it meant to bear the mantle of Batman.

Dick shrugged, leaning back. "The mayor even refuses to make a statement directly addressing Red Hood." He turned to Bruce, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Remember the way the press slandered you for years when Batman wasn't acknowledged as a hero?" He paused, hoping to get a reaction—but Bruce remained silent. Dick let the comment drop, conceding the point.

"So he finally got his revenge and killed Joker… now what?" Dick asked rhetorically, shifting his attention back to the largest monitor, where footage of Batman's recent fight with Red Hood replayed endlessly.

Bruce's eyes stayed fixed on the screen. He had kept the recording on loop ever since briefing them on his encounter with Jason, analyzing how Jason fights.

"There's no telling what's going on in his head," Bruce said, his eyes still the footage of Jason. "Crime can't be stopped completely—but it can be controlled." He rested a hand on his chin, deep in thought, and Damian raised a brow at the unusual tone in his father's words.

"Something Jason said… that must be his goal," Bruce clarified, as if reading his own thoughts aloud.

"Great," Dick muttered with a dry smirk. "We've got one of our own setting up shop in Gotham's underworld."

"That could take months," Bruce replied, eyes narrowing at the screens. "What we need to know now is his next move." He reviewed Red Hood's pattern of actions, but it was messy—chaotic even. Jason never took a direct route; every move was meant to serve for a didferent purpose that demonstrated.

"How about Black Mask?" Damian asked, pointing to a potential thread that could reveal Jason's next target.

"Jason only began his feud with Black Mask to manipulate him into helping free Joker from Arkham," Dick explained. "He's already accomplished that goal. By now, he might be done with Roman."

"Not entirely," Bruce interjected, his voice firm and precise.

"What do you mean?" Dick asked, both sons turning their attention to their father.

"Jason is unpredictable," Bruce said. "We need to account for every piece on the board, even the ones we think are inconsequential. Any of them could draw Red Hood back into our path."

Damian's eyes darkened with curiosity. "Father… when we finally reach him, what's the plan? Do you intend to send him to Arkham?" His question had been gnawing at him ever since he'd watched the footage of the intense fight between Batman and Red Hood.

"No," Bruce said sharply. "If we can't convince him—or stop him outright—we at least prevent him from taking more lives in his pursuit of a safer Gotham."

"Messing in his business is going to get him pissed," Dick commented, leaning back as he recalled past encounters with Jason.

"His methods violate our code," Damian admitted, voice low, "but even I can't deny the results. Has it ever crossed your mind, Father, that maybe Gotham needs both of you? Batman and Red Hood?" He kept his tone casual, but inside, he quietly approved of Jason's actions, something his father clearly saw as his eyes narrowed.

"Oh, so good cop–bad cop?" Dick teased, catching the implication. He knew Bruce didn't condone the bloodshed Jason brought with him, but he understood Damian's point.

"Either way, we need some kind of understanding," Dick continued. "A truce, at least, so he doesn't see us as hostiles. I don't wish to have a pistol at my face and a frigging sword on my neck just because decide to say hi when we cross paths." His voice carried a hint of grim humor.

He recalled being trapped in a cellar with Jason, feeling the heat of the flames around him when Jason left him, he was convinced he might die any second.

Then the memory of the gas station incident flashed in his mind, Jason had almost ruined his reputation as a hero in that one. And let's not forget how Jason had manipulated Black Mask just to get to Joker. Dick realized then that Jason's logic operated on a completely different wavelength from everyone else's.

"With that mouth of yours, I wouldn't be surprised if he shot your leg," Damian remarked with a smirk as though he'd delight in that sight.

Dick shot him a sharp glare but ignored it.

While Damian kept his eyes glued to the endless replay of Batman's encounter with Red Hood. Something about the way Jason moved, calculated yet brutal, pulled him in. He couldn't look away as he studied it.

- - -

Jason hadn't been able to reach Li that afternoon. With no intention of spending the day cooped up at home, he decided to treat himself to lunch at a restaurant known for its high-quality, expertly cooked steaks. It was his way of celebrating a Joker-free Gotham—and, admittedly, giving himself a small pat on the back. Even if the victory didn't feel as satisfying as he had imagined, a win was a win, and revenge well-earned deserved recognition.

A waiter, moving with the precise grace of a butler, led him to a table. Jason ordered three of the restaurant's specialty steaks, and it wasn't long before they were placed before him.

"Your meal, sir," the waiter said, bowing slightly.

Jason's eyes roamed over the dishes. The sight, the aroma, even the subtle hiss of juices on the plate—it all made his mouth water. Without hesitation, he reached for the knife and fork, slicing into the first piece and bringing it to his mouth.

The first bite was a revelation. He closed his eyes halfway, nodding in appreciation, savoring the flavors as if his mood had been lifted by the simple act of eating.

"Too bad I couldn't reach Li… I'll bring her here another time," he murmured to himself, already planning a small outing for her.

After finishing his lunch, he ordered a steak to go and left the restaurant, heading to the parking lot where his black bike waited. He had work to do—stalking Roman Sionis, studying his routines in case his arrest caused further changes, and determining the perfect moment to strike. Now that Joker was gone, Black Mask would surely tighten his security since his trump card has been sent to the grave.

'My daily life as a part-time stalker,' Jason lampooned in self deprecation. Most of his time since returning to Gotham had been spent surveilling and monitoring his targets like some overzealous shadow.

He pulled on his biking helmet, revved the engine, and shot off into the city. The sky was a muted gray, the afternoon sun hidden behind Gotham's persistent smog. He thought of the last time Black Mask had set a trap with KGBeast, almost crippling him in the process. 'That really sucked,' he recalled grimly, taking note to be catilous this time around because Black Mask was sure to get another, but the question was who.

As he wove through the streets, a sudden realization hit him. He swerved to the curb, bringing the bike to a stop. Around him, the city wore hints of holiday decor; building windows glimmered with festive lights, and a small café displayed a miniature Christmas tree in its front window.

"That's right… it's almost Christmas," he said softly, removing his helmet. He looked up at the clouded sky. "Looks like we're in for a late snow this year."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

A bitter chill settled over Gotham that night. The streets pulsed with the steady crawl of headlights—civilians driving home from long shifts, others heading out in search of distraction.

Beneath that ordinary rhythm, crime moved just as faithfully. In shadowed alleys and behind tinted windows, deals were being struck and something—always something—was being stolen.

Big Lou rode up in an elevator that did not belong to him, inside a building he had no business entering without permission. It wasn't one of his properties. It wasn't neutral ground. And he certainly hadn't secured an appointment.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Armed guards escorted him down a narrow hallway and through a set of double doors into a lavish office washed in low, amber light.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Lou?" Sophia Falcone asked from behind her desk. A glass of whiskey rested in her hand as she tilted her chin upward, cool and unimpressed. She flicked her fingers toward the guards, silently dismissing them.

"To see you, of course," Lou replied smoothly, stepping closer to the desk—and more importantly, the bottle of whiskey sitting atop it. "We are family, after all."

Sophia opened a drawer behind the desk and pulled out an empty glass, extending it toward him. Just as his fingers reached for it, she drew it back.

"You don't just show up unannounced," she said flatly as she droped the glass on the desk instead of handing it to him.

Lou ignored the warning in her tone. He reached out his hand once again, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself a drink without asking.

"So… what brings you here?" Sophia asked once he finished pouring. Lou dropped the bottle back into the bucket of ice with a dull clink, then plucked three cubes between his thick fingers and let them fall into his glass one by one.

"I already told you," he said, swirling the drink lazily. "I came to check on you. You haven't reached out since our little run-in with the Red Bat."

He lumbered over to a couch near her desk and lowered himself into it, the cushions protesting under his weight. The nickname was a deliberate—half a jab at the crimson bat emblem on Red Hood's chest, half a nod to the way the man operated like a bloodthirsty version of Batman.

"Cut the crap," Sophia replied evenly, not the least bit rattled. "If that's truly why you're here, you can leave. As you can see, I'm doing just fine." She gestured vaguely around the office. "If not, get to the fucking point. I'm busy."

Lou's gaze drifted over her desk. "Busy," he echoed under his breath. From where he sat, it looked more like a late-night spiral than hard work—paperwork pushed off to one side, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, a sweating bucket of ice cradling the whiskey bottle.

He couldn't tell whether she was trying to drown herself in the drink or set a record for most cigarettes smoked in a single sitting.

"…Right," he muttered with clear sarcasm.

He pulled his eyes back to her and leaned forward slightly. "The Red Hood is why I'm here tonight."

Sophia had already drawn a cigarette from the pack. As he spoke, she flicked open her lighter. A brief flare of flame lit her features as she brought it to the tip, one brow arching in silent interest.

"It's a good thing we accepted his offer—the smart move, too," Lou said, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "That unhinged bastard actually killed the Joker." He let out a short scoff. "Guy's completely insane."

"We didn't take his deal just to protect the business," Sophia replied, smoke curling from her lips as she exhaled. "We did it to protect the family. And ourselves." She tapped ash into the tray. "If Batman can't rein him in, what makes you think we could? Crossing him would've been suicide."

She rotated her chair halfway toward the massive window behind her desk. Gotham's city lights shimmered against the glass, reflecting faintly in her eyes.

"Especially now," she continued quietly, "that he's made it clear to everyone what happens when you test him."

Lou let out a low breath. "I'm just glad we're not on his hit list. Compliance beats resistance any day." He swirled the ice in his glass. "Nobody runs an empire from six feet under."

Sophia turned back toward him, and without another word, they both lifted their glasses in a subtle, mutual acknowledgment.

"The Joker's death shook everything," she admitted after a moment. "Not just the underworld, Gotham itself. No telling what that lunatic's next move is. I won't lie… it's got me on edge."

"Well," Lou said, leaning back into the couch, "he made an example out of Black Mask before finishing the Joker. If that arrogant prick still decides to push back instead of playing ball, what's stopping Red Hood from taking his head too?"

Sophia studied him for a beat, cigarette poised between her fingers. "Maybe there's more going on in that head of yours than I thought. Was starting to think your brain might be clouded by cholesterol"

Lou's eyes narrowed slightly. The comment sounded just close enough to an insult about his size to make him bristle.

"Either way," he went on, ignoring it, "Joker's gone. That leaves a vacuum. And if Black Mask follows…"

"—Then we step in," Sophia finished smoothly. "With Red Hood's backing."

"Expanded territory means expanded revenue," Lou said, thinking it through aloud. "Which means his monthly cut grows too. Especially once we absorb the businesses Black Mask's been squeezing." He gave a small nod. "Fair exchange."

"Game is game," Sophia replied, raising her glass once more.

They clinked their drinks from across the room—two crime bosses toasting not just a profitable arrangement, but the beginning of a new order in Gotham.

- - -

[Harley Quinn POV]

Not everyone celebrated the news of the Joker's death. While much of Gotham buzzed with shock—or relief—and Batman grieved in his own quiet, complicated way, Harley Quinn simply refused to believe it.

Not this time. Not for real.

She sat at the very top of a powerless Ferris wheel, legs dangling over the edge of the cart as the amusement park stretched out beneath her in dark, silent stillness. The rides were shut down for the night, the lights dead and without power. From up there, the whole place looked like a graveyard of memories.

And all she could see were the good times.

The way Mr. J had thrown his head back laughing as the wheel spun. The cotton candy. The fireworks they'd set off just because they could. Every inch of the park felt haunted by him.

Beside her sat her closest friend, Pamela Isley—Poison Ivy—who had quietly used her vines to carry them up to the highest cart on the wheel. It was her way of helping Harley grieve. Of giving her space to feel it. To face it.

Tears slipped down Harley's powdered cheeks as she stared out at the empty park, her smile faint and fragile.

Pamela couldn't help but think back to that morning—to the moment she'd told her.

Harley had only heard about the chaos at the bridge. The explosions. The Red Hood. And Joker being taken. Abducted, she'd assumed. Like always. Because Mr. J always came back. He always had a punchline.

But she hadn't seen the early broadcast. The one that confirmed it.

Joker was dead.

"Mr. J is dead?" Harley had repeated, head tilted slightly, blue eyes wide and glassy as she looked at Ivy.

"They confirmed it on the news," Pamela said gently, holding out her phone. Social feeds were flooded. Headlines. Clips. Speculation.

Harley took the phone with trembling hands.

Her breath hitched. A gasp tore from her throat as she covered her open mouth, staring at the screen like it might suddenly change.

"This… this has gotta be a joke," she whispered, shaking her head. "That's it. That's what it is. Puddin's pulling the biggest gag of all time."

Denial wrapped around her like armor.

She went about the rest of the day in what passed for normal—talking too fast, smiling too wide, laughing at nothing. Pamela recognized it for what it was: shock dressed up in red and black.

Later, Ivy had gently asked if there was anywhere Harley wanted to go. Somewhere that might help her process it. Somewhere that might make it real.

That was how they ended up perched inside a Ferris wheel cart long after the park had closed.

"Not even Batsy would go that far," Harley muttered, hugging her knees for a second before her usual pout began to resurface. "He'd never actually kill Mr. J. But this Red Hood guy? Total meanie. I don't like him one bit."

"He's definitely built himself a reputation," Pamela replied calmly.

At her silent command, thick green vines slithered upward, wrapping securely around both of them. The metal cart creaked as the plants lifted them even higher—above the Ferris wheel itself.

The vines twisted and flattened, weaving together into a sturdy cradle that mimicked a seat, giving them something far more stable to sit on than rusted amusement park equipment.

Harley sniffed, then ran her fingers along the smooth wood of her bat, stroking it almost absentmindedly before giving it a few light practice swings.

"Now that Mr. J's gone," she said, voice shifting, "I gotta be ready. What if that means I'm next, huh? A gal's gotta look out for herself." She swung the bat again, imagining the crack it might make against a certain red-helmeted head.

"Relax," Ivy said gently, reaching up to toy with one of Harley's pigtails. "You're not exactly his type. I doubt you're on his radar."

Harley stared out over the city lights beyond the park. "Still… Gotham's never gonna feel the same without Mr. J."

Pamela gave a small nod, though inwardly she felt something far closer to relief than pity. She had always believed Joker's hold over Harley was poisonous—twisted, manipulative, destructive. Loving him had cost Harley pieces of herself over and over again.

If anything, Ivy was just grateful Harley wasn't spiraling into some revenge quest over him.

"Y'know," Harley said suddenly, looking down from their impossible height, "it's so high up here I can practically feel my brain untangling. Like the bad thoughts are just floating away."

She sounded lighter. Clearer.

"Then let's not waste that clarity," Pamela suggested. "How about we go grab a drink?"

Harley's eyes lit up instantly, a spark of her old mischief flickering back to life.

"Ooooh, now you're talkin'! Better to drown my sorrows than swim in 'em, right?" she chirped.

The vines coiled snugly around them once more and lowered them smoothly back to the ground in one fluid, controlled descent—like nature itself was cradling Harley through the fall.


- - -

Since Black Mask's arrest and subsequent bail, Li's workload had skyrocketed. She spent her days making calls, scheduling meetings, and trying to persuade the company's legal investors—many of whom were hesitant to continue doing business with someone who was speculated to have broken Joker out of jail.

As secretary of their cosmetic empire, she had done everything in her power to keep those investors from pulling out. She patched over doubts, rebuilt trust where she could, and even sweetened deals with a few company favors. Every move was calculated to stabilize the business, to keep it afloat amid the chaos.

By the time she finally made it home, exhaustion weighed on her like lead. All she wanted was a hot shower and a chance to collapse into bed. She tossed her keys onto the counter and started toward the living room.

Her hand reached for the light switch, and as the room flooded with illumination, she froze.

There he was—Red Hood—seated in her living room again. But this time, there was no book in his hands. His fingers were laced together, and one leg swung wildly over the other as if showcasing his boots.

"Oh great… it's you again," Li said with a flat tone, showing no surprise—or annoyance—at his presence.

"Is that how you greet the man who saved you and your boss from a fiery death at the hands of a crazed clown you freed yourselves?" Red Hood replied, lounging casually in her living room as if it were his own.

"…"

"Maybe I should've just let that clown run wild before showing up," he added, the words teasing but carrying an edge of truth.

Li's lips parted, and after a pause, she said, "Thank you." His head tilted slightly, a satisfied nod acknowledging her acknowledgment. "If that's all, then you can leave," she added.

"Well, that was blunt," he replied with a smirk beneath his helmet.

"This is basically breaking and entering," she shot back, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. "I don't mind calling the police… though that would be a hassle."

He studied her for a moment. "You've had a long day, and have stress written all over you," he said.

She nodded subtly, knowing her bluff would probably get him to leave; calling the police was the last thing she intended.

He rose from his seat, taking deliberate steps toward her, boots thudding softly against the floor. "It must be exhausting, being the secretary to Black Mask—wiping up after him, covering his messes… which are frequent, I hear."

His voice dropped into something colder, and a lot more serious, like a negotiator pressing hard on a weak spot.

"Why not accept the deal I proposed last time? It'd save you from Roman's bullshit—and save the empire you work so hard to keep afloat. Otherwise… it could be destroyed, or handed off to someone sure to mismanage it."

Li's stomach tightened at the implication. "Why me? To betray my boss? That's… unthinkable," she replied. She knew exactly what he was doing—manipulating her to prevent another power vacuum, forcing her to take control of the empire before rival factions claimed it.

She didn't care about territories, only the business—and small areas she knew she could protect, where her products would remain untouched and her work uninterrupted.

And deep down, she also realized something else—that the only reason he had saved her that night was for this purpose. She didn't know he was actually the alter ego of the man she was currently seeing.

"Can I trust you to keep me safe from the other sharks circling, just waiting for a chance to grab a bite?" Li asked, her voice laced with a mix of caution and curiosity.

"You can," Red Hood replied smoothly. "Though some of Black Mask's territory will need to be divided, it's just business at the end of the day. Everybody profits. No needless bloodshed. No factions killing each other just to flex power."

Li considered this carefully. "Alright… if you actually manage to get Roman out of the picture, I'll think about your offer." Betrayal wasn't something she ever thought she'd entertain, but if Black Mask's reckless ways leads t hos demise, who was she to ignore the opportunity?

"That's what I like to hear," he said, his modulated voice hiding the smirk beneath his helmet.

And then—suddenly—the lights cut out. Darkness swallowed the room.

Li fumbled for her purse, searching for her phone, only for the lights to flick back on a few seconds later. Red Hood was gone. Not that she was surprised—anyone familiar with Gotham knew that disappearing acts were practically an habit amongst the bat vigilantes.

From a rooftop not far away, Jason glanced down at a small device in his hand. "Nothing like pulling off a smooth Houdini," he muttered in reference to a magiciam's disappearing act as he slide the portable EMP back into his utility belt with a quiet satisfaction.

With Li now on his side, eliminating Black Mask from the equation felt like a formality.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"It's been three nights," Nightwing muttered, lowering his binoculars for a second as he remained seated casually at the edge of the rooftop. "Three nights of watching Black Mask, and still no sign of our unhinged brother in the red helmet."

Perched a few feet away, Damian didn't bother looking at him at first. "Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be in Blüdhaven?" he asked dryly, irritation clear in his tone.

"And miss out on foiling Jason's latest murder plot?" Dick replied with a grin. "Not a chance." He sounded almost eager at the thought of annoying Jason.

Damian finally lowered his own binoculars and shot him a flat stare. "Father and I are more than capable of handling this. We do not require your assistance."

He returned to observing Black Mask, who was currently shouting at a cluster of his men below for reasons neither of them could quite make out.

"And let you two have all the excitement?" Dick scoffed lightly. "Yeah… no way."
He raised his binoculars again. "Man, it must be exhausting working for someone that volatile. He hasn't stopped yelling."

"I would not be surprised if he develops hypertension," Damian replied coolly, rotating his binoculars away from Black Mask and sweeping the surrounding rooftops instead. If Jason were anywhere nearby, Damian intended to spot him first.
Dick noticed the shift. "You think Jase might be watching us while we're watching Black Mask?"

"With Jason, paranoia is prudence," Damian answered without hesitation. "One cannot afford complacency."

"That's why Batman's doing his usual patrol loop," Dick added, leaning back on his palms as his legs dangled over the edge of the building. "Circling back every hour to check our six—just in case Jason decides to observe the observers."

"…"

"He keeps glancing at the window," Damian said quietly, still peering through his binoculars. "Staring at random buildings behind his office. As though he's trying to signal, 'I know you're there', to some unseen predator."

"Can you blame him?" Dick replied. "If I thought Red Hood might be hunting me, I'd be checking over my shoulder too. What would you do if you found yourself in that situation?"

He pushed himself upright from his lounging position, then rolled forward smoothly onto his hands. His legs lifted into the air in a controlled arc as he transitioned into a perfect handstand. After holding it for a beat, he flowed back down and landed lightly on his feet—right at the edge of the rooftop—balancing with effortless precision.

"Circus boy," Damian muttered flatly.

Dick winced theatrically, clutching his chest. "Wow. I swear I just felt Jason somewhere out there smiling." He narrowed his eyes at Damian. "You've definitely been spending too much time with him to pick that up."

He tapped his chin dramatically. "Wait—so I've been the topic of brotherly bonding sessions? That's adorable."

Damian rolled his eyes and ignored the jab. Instead, he answered Dick's earlier question.

"If I knew Jason was hunting me—truly hunting me, in full Red Hood mode…" he paused, lowering his binoculars and angling his head slightly to meet Dick's gaze. "I would retreat to the League of Assassins' current base rather than gamble on confronting him."

Dick blinked.

That wasn't the answer he'd expected.

It sounded pragmatic. Almost cautious—coming from someone as proud and combative as Damian.

For a moment, Dick wondered why his fiercely arrogant little brother wouldn't even entertain the idea of standing his ground.

"Wouldn't you want to prove yourself? Beat him and show you're better?" Dick asked lightly, though there was a hint of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing tone.

Damian didn't rise to it.

"I have not spent extensive time with Jason since his return," he said evenly, eyes still fixed through his binoculars. "But among us—when it comes to tracking a target and ensuring the hunt ends in success—he is the most proficient."

Dick blinked at that.

Damian shifted his stance slightly, adjusting his focus on Black Mask below. "Give him enough time," he continued with a calm but certain voice, "and even Father could fall to him in a deathmatch."

The statement briefly hung in the air.

As he spoke, Damian's mind flickered to the recorded footage of Bruce and Jason's confrontation—the speed, the brutality, the raw intent behind every strike. He didn't know what Ra's al Ghul might have thought of Jason. He didn't know where Jason had disappeared to for three years, nor how he survived Lian Yu with a gunshot wound and returned moving almost like a super-soldier.

But he had felt it.

The bloodlust.

He had seen Jason indulge it firsthand. The efficiency. The way he could erase his presence like smoke in the wind—there one second, gone the next. A predator in its purest form.

Jason's battle IQ was erratic but razor sharp. His skillset was unpredictable. His strength and speed were enhanced by something Damian couldn't quite quantify. And beneath it all was that relentless, inhuman hunger to kill.

Refined properly, Damian believed Jason would become something terrifying.

Dick exhaled slowly. Despite his surprise at Damian's conviction, he thought back to the same fight footage. "I don't buy that," he said at last.

"Maybe one day," he conceded. "But he's not there yet."

"You underestimate him," Damian replied without hesitation. "That would be your first error. And potentially your last, if you face him."

Dick arched a brow. Normally, he would have fired back with something sarcastic—something snappy and older-brotherish—but he stopped himself. If anyone here had the most recent firsthand experience with Jason, it was Damian. And right now, information mattered more than pride.

"He could be standing behind us at this very moment," Damian continued coolly, "and you wouldn't sense him."

He lowered the binoculars slightly as he spoke from experience.

"Trust me. He is exceptionally skilled at that."

His thoughts drifted briefly to that night during the Maroni drug bust—to the masked figure who had knocked him out.

Damian strongly suspected the masked figure that night had been Jason—but he hadn't had the opportunity to confirm it.

"Even Bruce would have a hard time sneaking up on me like that," Dick shot back, clearly unwilling to accept that last claim.

"Jason surpasses Father in the discipline of true stealth," Damian replied coolly, speaking less like a son and more like an assassin delivering an objective assessment.

"You cannot be serious," Dick muttered.

Still, despite himself, he turned and scanned the rooftop behind them, then the surrounding structures—just in case Red Hood had already marked them and Batman hadn't yet completed his patrol loop.


- - -

Ever since the Joker incident, Roman had been unraveling.

Between legal pressure, a blow to his legal reputation, and the lingering fear that Red Hood might slip into his bedroom while he slept, paranoia had become his constant companion.

"I keep feeling like I'm being watched," he muttered, turning sharply toward the buildings across from his office.

"You're paranoid, sir. No one is watching you," Li replied flatly, not even looking up from her tablet as she continued working.

Roman clasped his hands behind his back and strode toward the massive wall-to-wall window. He stared out at the skyline, scanning the opposite rooftops for any suspicious glint—perhaps the reflection of a sniper scope, perhaps a flicker of movement that might betray Red Hood's presence.

He held himself stiffly, posture rigid—an attempt to project confidence. To show he wasn't afraid.

But down below, his shoes shifted restlessly against the polished floor. A subtle tremor. The quiet physical tell of a man imagining a bullet punching through glass—through skull or heart—before he could even react.

"Maybe you're right," he said after a moment, with a tight voice. "But I can't shake the feeling that that bastard in red is out there somewhere… just waiting for his shot."

Li finally glanced up at him, her expression dull with indifference. "If it troubles you that much, perhaps installing a floor-to-ceiling window in your office wasn't the wisest design choice."

"I didn't exactly plan on having some psychotic bat-spawn toying with my life," Roman muttered. He studied his own reflection in the glass, fingers stroking his chin as he thought. "If he really wanted me dead, he could've done it already. So why hasn't he?"

"He did have the opportunity at the bridge," Li replied evenly, as though unaware that her employer's downfall was already quietly unfolding. "And he chose not to."

Her composure never wavered. She worked with such steady normalcy that Roman failed to notice the quiet betrayal sitting only a few feet away from him.

"Whatever that red-helmeted bastard is planning," Roman said, squaring his shoulders as if convincing himself, "I'm not going down easy."

Li glanced at him briefly. In this personal war between Black Mask and Red Hood, she felt little more than detachment. It didn't matter to her who emerged victorious—so long as her own safety and position were secured.

"Did you make contact with the mercenary I was referred to?" Roman asked, returning to his desk and lowering himself into his chair.

"Yes," Li answered simply. "He's already in Gotham. He should be here any minute."

"Good." Roman leaned back, satisfied. "The broker assured me this guy can solve my Red Hood problem. Once that's handled, business goes back to full throttle."

The broker—an intermediary Roman had hired months earlier—had helped him connect with buyers for his weapons shipments while also supplying him with select hardware.

At least, that arrangement had worked smoothly—until Red Hood began intercepting those shipments. Some were hijacked and dumped into the ocean. Others were destroyed by explosions.

Though there was no concrete proof, Black Mask was convinced Red Hood had kept part of the intercepted shipments for himself. Not just sabotage— theft.

"He's at the door, sir," Li said, glancing down at her tablet.

"Good. Send him in." Roman poured himself another drink, the amber liquid sloshing lazily in the glass.

"Let him in," Li relayed through the security channel, instructing the guards to allow the visitor upstairs.

The office doors swung open.

The mercenary strode in without hesitation, boots echoing against the polished floor as he approached Black Mask's desk. No pause or deference.

Roman studied him openly, skipping pleasantries. "I have to admit… it's unsettling. You look a little too much like the problem I'm trying to eliminate."

The man wore a red bandana mask over his face, with full combat gear on. Twin pistols rested holstered at his sides.

"Similar mask. Similar weapons," Roman continued. "For your sake, I hope you're just as capable—and just as unhinged."

The mercenary casually lifted his hands to adjust the collar of his trench coat, then pulled out the chair opposite the desk and sat down without waiting for permission.

Both Roman and Li registered the confidence—borderline arrogance.

"I'm not big on self-promotion," the mercenary replied coolly. "Let the results speak."

"What's the situation?" he asked, shifting straight to business.

Li provided a concise briefing—Red Hood's interference with shipments, the ongoing threat. Roman added that beyond serving as temporary personal security, the mercenary's primary objective was simple: bring him Red Hood. Dead or alive.

Black Mask leaned forward slightly. "You think you can handle that… Mr. Mercenary?"

The man didn't hesitate. "I understood the assignment when I accepted the contract. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."

He leaned back in his chair as he spoke with a steady voice.

"And call me Grifter."

- - -

New fic update:—

Shazam: The Last Thunder.

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Seated across from Black Mask was Grifter, a seasoned gun-for-hire brought in specifically to handle the Red Hood problem.

"There's talk going around," Grifter said evenly, his tone unreadable behind his mask, "that you were the one who set up Joker's escape from Arkham Asylum. Any truth to that?"

'Why the hell does he care?' Black Mask bristled inwardly. 'Who does this bastard think he is? Does he even understand who he's sitting across from?'

He immediately considered shutting the question down. As the employer, he decided what was shared and what stayed buried. Information was power—and he didn't hand out power freely. If he wanted the mercenary focused on the job, then that was all the man needed to know.

The carved skull fixed in its perpetual scowl tilted slightly as he prepared to assert that authority. But before he could speak, Grifter interrupted.

"Don't bother dodging it," he said calmly. "If it's true, I need to know. The truth could help me anticipate the target's reaction to your actions. And anticipating problems is how I keep you alive." That caught him off guard.

'How the hell did he read me that quickly?' Black Mask wondered, studying the mercenary more carefully now. 'Maybe he really is a professional… or maybe he's just another kind of freak.'

He locked into the stare anyway, refusing to yield an inch. It would've felt like a staring contest between the two—if not for the fact that Grifter's eyes were hidden behind that damn mask, giving away absolutely nothing.

After steadying himself and weighing his options, he decided the truth was the only viable move. At this point, his survival hinged almost entirely on Grifter's competence.

"I didn't have a choice," he began, his voice unsettlingly composed—stripped of its usual irritation and venom.

Across the room, Li paused at her desk. Her fingers stilled over the keyboard as she lifted her eyes from the glow of her laptop to study Black Mask. He drew in a long breath, the kind a man takes before confessing to something irreversible, and began recounting the truth about the Joker incident.

From where she sat, the entire exchange felt less like a strategic briefing and more like an impromptu therapy session for her employer.

"Start from the beginning," Grifter said evenly. "The reports claim Red Hood killed Joker. And somehow, Red Hood ends up on that bridge? That's no coincidence." It was a question Black Mask had been dreading.

Li shot him a brief look before returning her attention to the screen, though her focus clearly wasn't on the data anymore.

"I knew freeing that maniac would come back to bite me," Black Mask admitted.

"But I was cornered. That red-helmeted psychopath had already slaughtered several mercenaries I hired to keep him off my back. I needed a counterweight—something unpredictable, something vicious. The clown fit the bill. His dark and chaotic creativity, his twisted imagination… It could serve as a weapon. One I intended to use." He paused as his jaw tightened. "I just knew there'd be consequences. I just didn't expect them that fast."

He refilled his glass without a word, the steady motion of his hand betraying none of the tension tightening his shoulders. If he kept his composure, if he laid everything out clearly, maybe they could piece together how Red Hood had learned about the Joker breakout, or why he spared his life and went after Joker instead.

"That psycho actually agreed to work with you?" Grifter asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Everyone's got a price," Black Mask replied. "Even that deranged freak." His jaw flexed as irritation seeped into his tone. "He agreed to help me eliminate Red Hood, in exchange for his freedom."

He scoffed bitterly. "Didn't even last ten minutes. The moment we sealed the deal, he turned on me and nearly barbequed me alive."

From her desk, Li caught the subtle omission—no mention of her or the others who had been trapped in that vehicle with him. But she wasn't surprised. Self-preservation had always been his dominant trait.

"Get to the part where Red Hood arrived," Grifter cut in, uninterested in Joker's theatrics. Beyond simple curiosity, he was trying to understand why Red Hood had chosen to kill Joker instead of finishing the job on Black Mask, especially after relentlessly hunting him.

"That bastard hogtied me and soaked me in gasoline," Black Mask snapped, anger creeping into his voice as the memory resurfaced. "The way he looked at me… the way he laughed while flicking that lighter—" He swallowed hard. "I still see it when I try to sleep."

He exhaled sharply. "And if that wasn't enough, I am haunted by the idea of waking up later with a gun pressed to my skull by Red Hood himself? That kind of paranoia doesn't just fade. I haven't had a full night's rest since."

Catching himself veering off course, he forced his tone back under control and continued with the details his mercenary bodyguard was actually waiting for.

"Can't tell if it was dumb luck or some sick punchline," Black Mask muttered. "But that red-bat freak shot the lighter right out of the clown's hand and knocked him away from us." His grip tightened around the glass. "Before he disappeared, he said I owed him one."

He let out a dry laugh. "I felt nauseous… humiliated. But I was alive. Saved from burning to death, by him of all people."

"Is that everything?" Grifter asked with a leveled voice, though the intensity behind his mask tightened.

"That's it. A second later I heard another gunshot. Next thing I knew, our wrecked vehicle was swarming with cops."

Grifter folded his arms, thinking it through. "It's possible he didn't shoot you because you were drenched in gasoline. Or maybe he left you alive for another reason."

"Or he bolted because of the sirens," Black Mask countered. "Outnumbered, no time to juggle me, Joker, and half the GCPD. So he grabbed the bigger prize." His eyes darkened. "Maybe he decided to finish what Batman never would."

Grifter went quiet at that, weighing the angle. Then another possibility surfaced. "What if Joker was the objective from the start? Not you. You were just… collateral."

Black Mask stroked his chin slowly, drink hovering in his hand. "He acts as a vigilante, doesn't he? Unlike Batman, he's not shackled by rules. If he wanted to make a statement, going after Joker makes sense. The clown was a larger predator than me—more chaotic, even more dangerous."

"For now, we don't have enough to draw a firm conclusion," Grifter said. "But let's consider the possibility. If he manipulated the situation just to get close to Joker…" His tone hardened slightly.

"Then he might be more clever than the erratic personality he presents himself to be, if he somehow managed to manipulate you into bringing him the clown."

Black Mask's arm froze mid-motion, the rim of his glass suspended inches from his mouth.

He barked out a short laugh and set the glass down with a dull clink.

"Someone that reckless isn't some grand strategist," he scoffed. "And I made that call myself. There's no way he could've predicted I'd turn to a lunatic like Joker instead of hiring competent players from the underworld. That was my decision."

Grifter gave a slow, measured nod. That explanation held more weight than the idea of Black Mask being maneuvered like a pawn. If manipulation really had been involved, then Red Hood was operating on a level far more calculating and far more dangerous, than he'd shown so far.

With no concrete answers to extract and no clear motive to pin down, Grifter shifted gears. It was time to establish terms.

"I understand you're used to running things your way," he said evenly. "But as your personal security, there will be adjustments. Procedures I'll enforce. If I give an instruction, you follow it. Even if it's a down play on your ego, there should be no resistance. It's about keeping you alive, your ego won't help you with that."

At her desk, Li couldn't help the brief glance she shot their way. Hearing someone tell her boss—directly, without hesitation—to take orders was almost surreal.

Black Mask arched a brow, his right eye twitching faintly as irritation flared. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Was clearly written on his expression.

Then reality settled in. Grifter wasn't an underling. He was hired protection. And if staying breathing meant swallowing a bit of pride and following directives, then so be it.

He drew in a slow breath, forcing the irritation down.

"As long as it keeps me alive, I can live with that," he said evenly. "But don't push it." He warned.

"Good." Grifter didn't waste time. There was something that had been bothering him since the second he walked into the office.

"I shouldn't have to explain why that window is a liability." He tilted his chin toward the massive pane of glass stretching behind Black Mask's desk. "You're practically inviting a sniper to take a clean shot."

Black Mask resisted the urge to glance back. "I've considered that. If he wanted me dead from a distance, he would've done it by now." Even as he said it, a cold thread of unease tightened in his gut. Still, his voice remained steady.

He had already planned to reinforce the glass. Now he would simply frame it as complying with his bodyguard's recommendation.

Grifter studied him for a moment. "If that's true, then he's not interested in a distant kill." He leaned back slightly in his chair. "Which means he wants it up close and personal."

Black Mask reclined as well, steepling his fingers. "Then that works in our favor," he said, masking his unease with confidence.

"Up close, we can prepare for him." Grifter added.

- - -

Over the past couple of days and nights, I've stalked and observed Black Mask in preparation for a fun hunt. But Batman and my annoying brothers are keeping tabs on him at night as if they were protecting him from the shadows. Protecting him from me.

Yeah, that's right…I've got one heck of a nosy family.

If I were to engage him, I might end up having to also deal with them. Yes, I could snip him, but that would be boring. It'd eliminate the thrill and suspensive relationship I have built between Black Mask and I. It's almost like courting him from the view point of a stalker.

I want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes that yes—he is about to die. Make him feel the dread of death just like how he felt on the bridge with Joker.

Ahh…the feel of delivering a similar treatment he has given to so many in the past would be quite ironic, the slow torture before death should make him feel like the karmic recoil of his past actions had come to bite him on the ass.

Looking through the scope of my sniper rifle, I spotted a masked weirdo in combat gear seated across Black Mask's desk. I see, he must be KGBeast's replacement, probably hired to protect that skull-faced scum while intending to hunt me—the hunter.

Either way, I plan to make my first move tonight. The appearance of that guy, who's probably a mercenary, does not change anything. I had expected him to make such a move.

Tonight was supposed to be my opening act to let Black Mask know I hadn't forgotten about him, then kidnap his ass before ending him.

But I can't make my move if those nosey brothers of mine are still mounting their posts. Don't these guys get tired of trying to interfere with my objectives?

It doesn't matter either way. Three nights of this and I've set a plan in motion to lure them away for me to do my thing, and get my hands on Black Mask.

What might my plan be, you may ask? Well it's quite simple, cause enough ruckus to pull them away.

How? You might ask. Well, that's easy, with this detonator of mine which it's meant to activate two bombs strapped to the sides of a highway.

A little ruckus caused by a not-so-big of an explosion, but enough to lure those boys away.

Let's see whether Batman and his boys prioritize civilian safety over meddling in my affairs.

With a non-hesitant push of the button.

Boom.

The blast rolled through the night, a sharp concussion followed by a rising column of smoke. Even from my vantage point, I could hear it—the symphony of a chaotic night. Screeching tires. Crunching metal. A chorus of horns blaring in panicked frustration as vehicles collide and pile up.

Right on cue, Night Wing and Robin reached for their coms as if listening to orders from Batman—obviously.

They rushed towards the scene, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

We can finally get this party started.

With a quick change of position to a closer vantage point, I unbuckled a case and loaded an RPG.

Through the scope, I could se Black Mask and his new masked companion. They must be having quite the conversation, they're still talking.

Well… it would be rude to interrupt without announcing myself first.

Wouldn't want Black Mask and his new guard getting blown away without realizing who sent their regards. How about a little scare to indicate the count down for the final moments of Roman Sionis.

But my sweet Li is still in there, might as well get her out before launching an RPG into her office. Just because I used her doesn't mean I don't have feelings for her, might as well not get my name up the list of the most horrible boyfriends in history.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Seated on her desk as Black Mask's secretary, Li half-listened to her employer's conversation with his newly hired mercenary bodyguard while continuing to sort through files on her tablet. She kept her expression neutral with composed posture, the picture of professionalism—even as tension from the past week lingered in her shoulders.

Her phone suddenly lit up against the polished wood, vibrating with a soft ringtone.

She glanced down and saw Randy's name on the screen. It had been a while since they'd properly talked. Between the fallout from the Joker incident and the chaos that followed, she'd barely had time to breathe, let alone maintain her personal life.

Normally, she would've silenced the call and promised to return it later, but she has already turned down a few of his attempts to meet up, and ignoring him again might start to seem like she was avoiding him.

Also, she could do with some good back cracking—a good dick-down should help her relieve her pent up stress, so she picked up the phone and excused herself from the office.

She moved down the corridor, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, putting distance between herself and the guards stationed outside the office. Only when she was certain she was out of earshot did she accept the call.

"Hey, cupcake. I was starting to think you weren't gonna pick up." Jason's voice slid through the speaker, it carried a warm and amused tone.

"I'm at work," she replied evenly, though she kept walking until she found a quieter stretch of hallway. "I needed somewhere private to take a personal call. Too many curious eyes around here."

"I get it," Jason said. "You've been buried in work. No complaints from me. Honestly? I kind of like the whole professional office-lady vibe you've got going on." He paused just long enough to soften his tone. "But I've missed you."

The words caught her off guard. Li wasn't accustomed to open affection—certainly not directed at her. Her pulse quickened as she searched for an appropriate response, something that didn't sound awkward or overly stiff. Flirting wasn't exactly her strength. In the end, she settled for honesty.

"I've missed you too," she said quietly, pressing the phone closer to her ear. She leaned against the wall, angling her face so her hair would conceal the faint blush warming her cheeks.

Jason chuckled softly. "I can hear it, you know. Your voice goes up a little when you're flustered. You're blushing right now, aren't you?"

Li's gaze flicked subtly around the hallway, instinctively checking that no one was watching—not the guards, not even the security camera mounted in the corner ahead.

"Tell you what," Jason continued smoothly. "How about a date night at your place on Christmas, if you don't have other plans? You won't be working that night, right?"

He chose the date carefully, two nights from now. If he succeeded in his plan to kill Black Mask, then Li shouldn't be too preoccupied with work since she would be the new boss.

- - -

Only minutes after Li had stepped out into the hallway to take her call, her lover stood positioned on a nearby rooftop, an RPG resting casually against his shoulder. With his other hand, he raised a pistol fitted with a suppressor and took aim at the office window of Black Mask.

From his angle—roughly sixty degrees off-center—he calculated the shot which wasn't meant to be a direct hit. The suppressed round struck the glass in a controlled graze rather than a direct impact.

It didn't shatter the window, but the force left a deep dent at the point of contact, fractures splintering outward in thin, jagged lines like a spiderweb spreading across the surface.

Inside, Black Mask had been mid-conversation with Grifter, detailing the elaborate precautions surrounding his safehouse—how he ordered his driver to weave through Gotham with unnecessary detours, switching vehicles in different parking structures before ever approaching the location.

The sharp, abrupt crack against the glass cut him off.

Both men turned toward the window at the same instant.

"What was that?" Black Mask demanded, staring at the fractured pattern etched into the pane.

"Was that a damn bird… or a bullet?" Black Mask muttered, already edging away from the fractured window.

Grifter stepped closer, studying the impact point with a professional eye. "Not a bird," he said calmly. "And if it were a 9mm round from a proper rifle, it would've punched clean through. This…?" He tilted his head slightly.

Black Mask moved in beside him despite his nerves, peering at the line indentation in the reinforced glass. The mark looked like something had brushed the surface rather than struck it head-on. Thin cracks spread outward in delicate arcs.

Grifter's gaze shifted from the pane, scanning the surrounding rooftops as he tried to trace the angle of the shot. His arm came up instinctively, pressing against Black Mask's chest to hold him back. The crime lord didn't argue this time. He stepped behind his hired gun, following the direction of his eyes.

They checked the right side first—nothing.

Then the left.

A figure stood on a nearby rooftop, framed against the night sky. A red helmet. A relaxed posture, and with an RPG resting on his shoulder. The masked man lifted one hand and gave them a slow, almost cheerful wave.

Black Mask felt his stomach drop. His eyes widened behind the black skull.

"Run!" Grifter barked.

They spun toward the door.

Outside, on the rooftop, Red Hood was still on a call with Li, planning a date as he watched them scramble.

"Okay then," Li's voice came softly through the line. "It's a date."

The confirmation settled warmly in his chest.

He pulled the trigger.

The rocket tore forward, shattering through the already weakened glass and streaking across the office in a blur of smoke and fire on its tail.

Inside, Grifter reacted instantly. He tackled Black Mask to the ground and kicked the central couch over in one fluid motion, dragging his employer behind it just as the missile detonated.

The explosion boomed through the room, blasting a crater into the far wall. The guards stationed by the door were hurled aside like rag dolls, swallowed by dust and debris.

Down the hallway, Li staggered as the shockwave ripped through the corridor. The phone nearly slipped from her hand. She spun around, her heart hammering as she stared towards the source of the blast in disbelief.

Before she could process what had happened, Black Mask and his mercenary emerged through the jagged hole blown into the office wall, coughing through smoke and crushing debris beneath their feet.

"Run!" he shouted again.

They bolted toward the elevators, jabbing the call button repeatedly. It wasn't responsive as the system had stalled.

"The stairs," Grifter snapped, grabbing Black Mask by the arm and hauling him toward the emergency exit.

They burst through the stairwell door and began descending rapidly—

Just as another rocket struck.

The second explosion rattled the building, sending tremors through the stairwell as concrete cracked from the explosion and alarms began to blare.

Grifter lunged at Black Mask and drove him to the floor just as the stairwell door was ripped from its hinges by the blast. The heavy steel door hurtled inward, its edge slamming into the wall exactly where Black Mask's head had been a second earlier.

Black Mask's face was alsmost drained of color. He lifted a trembling hand to his neck, rubbing at the skin as he swallowed hard, vividly imagining how close he'd come to being decapitated.

Grifter caught the look in his eyes—the paralysis that gripped him from the creeping shock. Li stood a few steps back, equally stunned.

"Move," Grifter snapped, grabbing both of them by the arms. "We have to go. Now."

He took point, pulling them down the stairwell toward the underground parking level. As they descended, soles pounding against concrete, he realized those weren't wild shots.

Red Hood hadn't fired blindly.

He must know the building's layout, he was even able to mess with the elevator to foil their immediate escape.

He'd even timed the second strike, estimating how long it would take them to reach each point.

'He's done his homework,' Grifter realized grimly.

They ignored the chaos unfolding around them—employees screaming, crowding uselessly around dead elevator doors while others abandoned hope and rushed for the stairwell as the air felt suffocatingly thick with dust and panic.

By the time they burst into the underground parking lot, Roman was breathing harder than he had in years, his expensive shoes slapping against concrete as other workers scrambled to their cars.

Li steered Grifter and Black Mask toward his vehicle, where the driver was already waiting, with engine idling. He shoved his employer inside, then turned as Li moved to follow.

He stopped her with a firm hand. "He's the target," Grifter said quickly. "No need to put you in the line of fire riding with us."

Inside the car, Black Mask barked at the driver to move.

Li hesitated only a second before nodding in understanding. Grifter slipped into the vehicle after his boss.

"Good," he muttered, glancing at the chaos in the rearview mirror. "Multiple cars are pulling out. That works in our favor."

His tone was calm, meant to steady Roman's fraying nerves. But in his mind, he knew if Red Hood had truely done his homework—he would recognize their vehicle.

And Grifter intended to use that to lure him out of the shadows.

They would follow the usual protocol—detours through Gotham, then a vehicle swap in an underground lot. Somewhere along that route, he would draw Red Hood in and engage him on his terms.

The car shot out of the garage and onto the street.

Behind the red helmet, a slow smirk formed as Red Hood gave chase from above.

He didn't pursue them head-on. Instead, he moved with restraint—leaping from rooftop to rooftop while maintaining enough distance to stay invisible. There was no urgency in his stride. He would let the car reveal its route first, then cut ahead using parallel streets and elevated vantage points, keeping a close chase while concealing himself from exposure

A grappling hook fired with a muted thwip, the cable going taut as he swung cleanly between buildings. He traveled above their projected path, adjusting course as needed, careful to remain out of sight.

Below, the vehicle weaved through Gotham in deliberate detours. At one point they even merged onto the highway, likely hoping the open stretch—free of rooftops and cover—would force him into view if he were trailing them.

But the skyline remained empty.

"Any sign of that piece of shit?" Black Mask demanded, twisting in his seat while Grifter kept watch through the rear window.

Grifter scanned the traffic carefully. Headlights. Sedans. A delivery truck. Nothing unusual. No bike. No armored vigilante. No red helmet.

"No sign," he replied after another sweep. "Doesn't look like he's chasing."

Black Mask exhaled shakily.

"That doesn't mean we're safe," Grifter added with a steady voice. "Don't ease up yet."

They exited the highway shortly after, the driver looping through a calculated semicircle as part of the escape pattern before finally steering toward an underground parking structure beneath a residential apartment complex.

This was the next step in the protocol.

The vehicle swap.

The car rolled to a stop a short distance from the replacement vehicle. Its driver stepped out immediately and hurried around to open the rear door, head lowered with tensed posture as he waited for his employer.

Black Mask and Grifter exited and started toward the second car—

"I'm really starting to get bored of this little game of hide and seek we keep playing."

The modulated voice echoed across the concrete structure.

Both men snapped their heads toward the source—just in time to see Red Hood step into view. His twin pistols were already raised.

Muzzle flashes burst in rapid succession.

The sharp cracks of gunfire ricocheted through the parking garage.

Grifter reacted instantly, shifting to shield Black Mask—but not before a round tore into Roman's lap.

"Agh—!"

"Ahh, you bastard—!" The crime lord collapsed with a choked cry.

Grifter himself absorbed the next hits: one punching into his arm, another grazing along his ribs, a third biting into his thigh. He staggered but held his footing, dragging Black Mask behind the open car door for cover.

He leaned out and returned fire, controlled bursts forcing Red Hood to pivot and slide behind a thick concrete pillar as bullets chipped and sparked against it.

"Move!" Grifter barked, shoving Black Mask into the back seat.

The driver attempted to scramble inside from the opposite side—

A single shot rang out.

The round struck clean through his head. He dropped instantly, body crumpling onto the concrete as dark blood spread beneath him, pooling across the floor like violent street art painted in fresh crimson.

The driver of the first vehicle remained inside, slouched low in his seat so it appeared abandoned from a distance.

"You need to get out of here. Now," Grifter ordered sharply.

Black Mask nodded through gritted teeth, pain radiating from the bullet lodged in his lap. But one thought cut through the haze. "What about you?" he demanded, realizing he was about to be seperated from his hired gun.

"I'm doing what you hired me for," Grifter replied without hesitation.

He slammed the door shut and leaned out, firing controlled cover shots as Red Hood answered in kind.

Grifter dove forward, turning the dive into a shoulder roll that carried him behind the rear of the vehicle, giving him a tighter angle on Red Hood's position.

Inside the car, Black Mask forced himself over the console and into the driver's seat, his movements were clumsy from both pain and adrenaline.

Across the garage, Red Hood advanced at an unhurried pace, firing with two shots which rang out the instant Black Mask grabbed the steering wheel.

The bullets tore straight through the windshield, one ripping into his arm, the other continuing through the rear windshield in a near-impossible line aimed at Grifter's head.

"Ahh! You bastard!" Black Mask screamed, dropping lower behind the dashboard as blood slicked his sleeve.

Behind the vehicle, Grifter jerked aside just in time, narrowly avoiding the round that shot toward him like a trick shot.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Move, I'll cover you!" Grifter smacked the rear of the vehicle before vaulting away, diving behind another car for cover as Black Mask slammed his hand onto the ignition pad.

The engine roared to life as the car lurched forward, fishtailing as he tried to steer while ducking low in his seat. Metal crunched when he clipped the side of the vehicle he'd just abandoned, with the driver still hiding inside.

Across the lot, Red Hood stood planted—one pistol trained on Grifter's position, the other locked onto Black Mask—and opened fire.

Screeeech—

The escaping car scraped hard against the other vehicle, sparks spitting as it dragged along the metal and sped toward the exit. Before it could clear the lane, Red Hood squeezed off a shot and blew out one of the front tires.

The driver from the earlier vehicle realized staying put was a death sentence. He threw his car into gear and peeled out, swinging in behind Black Mask to shield his boss from further fire.

Red Hood adjusted instantly. He fired at the new obstacle—one round into the front left tire, another into the rear on the same side, then a third into the front right. The vehicle jerked violently, swerving as control slipped away. The imbalance gave him the opening he needed. He took it—sending another precise shot into one the front tire on Black Mask's fleeing car.

Black Mask swerved hard, fighting the steering wheel as the ruined tires dragged and pulled against him. The car bucked and scraped, but he managed to power through and burst out of the parking lot.

The only reason he made it was because Grifter kept Red Hood occupied, laying down just enough pressure to split his focus.

"He's gone now.." Grifter's voice came through as the gunfire died instantly. In its place, a thick, uneasy silence settled over the lot—smoke drifting, and shell casings scattered across the asphalt.

"So?" Red Hood finally spoke, breaking the quiet. 'Hope this guy isn't thinking we're about to shake hands and compare dick sizes now that we're alone, he thought dryly.

"It's obvious you've got skills," Grifter called out. "How about we handle introductions before we get back to trying to kill each other?"

There was no mockery in his tone, for he has come to acknowledge Red Hood's marksmanship. Respect, even. He'd already measured Red Hood and was clearly looking forward to the inevitable clash.

"I'm Grifter," he said, stepping out from behind cover and into view.

"Red Hood."

He stepped out as well, and the two men faced each other from a short distance apart. The air between them felt somehow tense.

They both knew the chaos they'd just caused wouldn't go unanswered—sirens were probably already echoing somewhere in the distance. In a city like Gotham, residents didn't hesitate to call the cops when automatic gunfire started rattling beneath their windows. Especially around that neighborhood.

And honestly? Who could blame them.

The question was whether these two could finish what they started before blue and red lights flooded the lot.

"I see the cowardly tyrant hired you to take me out," Red Hood said. His guns hung low, but his grip remained tight. Across from him, Grifter mirrored the posture, twin pistols resting near his hips.

"Yeah," Grifter replied evenly. "He did."

Without lifting his arms fully, he snapped off two shots straight from the hip.

Red Hood answered in kind, with quick and subsequent squeezes of the trigger. Muzzle flashes lit the space between them as they moved through each other's gunfire, weaving and shifting like they were testing one another.

'Why does this feel like some old-school gunslinger standoff at high noon outside a saloon?" Red Hood mocked inwardly, calmly studying the man across from him.

He watched everything—the footwork, the shoulder tension, even the cadence of Grifter's voice.

'His movements and body language wasn't that of a person who's been shot.'

That realization narrowed his focus.

'Fast healing?

'A meta-human? Fuck, it just had to be one with accelerated healing.' He inwardly remarked.

"You couldn't get to my boss," Grifter called out, sarcasm rolling off his tongue. "But I can make this worth your time."

Red Hood's jaw tightened beneath the helmet. Black Mask slipping through his fingers meant delay and another attempt to get his hands on him.

He holstered one pistol smoothly and reached over his shoulder with his free hand.

Grifter reacted instantly. A shot cracked through the air, aimed straight at Red Hood's helmet.

Steel flashed.

The blade Red Hood pulled from his back snapped into place just in time, the bullet glancing off with a sharp metallic ping. Sparks spat between them as both men surged forward, guns barking again as they closed the distance.

They fired repeatedly while advancing, bodies weaving and angling, slipping past rounds by inches. It wasn't wild shooting—it was controlled aggression, each man reading the other in real time.

When the gap between them vanished, firearms became liabilities.

Both holstered in near-perfect sync.

Red Hood kept the sword in hand with his blade angled forward.

Grifter answered by drawing twin daggers, steel catching the dim light as they stepped fully into close-quarters combat.

Their blades collided with a sharp metallic crack, steel grinding against steel. Red Hood leaned into the bind and, with a powerful shove of his sword, forced Grifter backward—his enhanced strength tipping the balance. In that brief second where Grifter's footing faltered, Red Hood drove a heavy boot into his torso.

The impact lifted Grifter clean off his feet and sent him crashing back-first into a parked car as metal dented under the force.

Jason showed no hesitation. While Grifter was still airborne, he quick-drew his pistol and fired, lining up a clean headshot.

But Grifter snapped his head aside mid-fall. The bullet tore past where his skull had been a fraction of a second earlier.

Grifter hit the ground and rolled. He sprang back up with little sign of damage, drew his pistol, and fired in Red Hood's direction while shifting toward cover.

He'd made his own observations.

The strength behind that shove, and the weight of Red Hood's sword whenever he evaded with his blades.

'Impressive.' He noted inwardly.

What he hadn't measured yet was speed—how fast Red Hood could truly move once things escalated.

Grifter was no amateur. When it came to his combat prowess, he was well trained in the Coda fighting technique…but so far, their clash had shown him that he wasn't facing some disheveled vigilante playing dress up.

'To push me like that at both long and mid-range?' Grifter assessed inwardly. 'He's had advanced training. No question about it.'

Grifter rolled his shoulder slowly, testing it. Heat and wetness clung to his sleeve—arm hit. Although his wounds had healed up, the burn in his thigh confirmed the second. Both bullets were taken while shielding his temporary employer from Red Hood's ambush.

'That lucky bastard better count his blessings I made it to Gotham when I did,' Grifter mused, eyes never leaving the figure ahead. 'Otherwise, he'd be bleeding out at this guy's feet.'

Red Hood was walking toward him with steady and measured steps.

"Pretty ballsy, "I'll give you that." Grifter remarked.

He performed a smooth reload without breaking eye contact, and with fluid motion. There was something about this guy that set his instincts on edge.

'The way he walks…'

Even with his heavy boots and built—not a single echoing thud across the concrete as his calm strides felt somewhat predatory.

Whatever this was about to become, it wasn't going to go down easy.

"I can tell you're not just some neighborhood vigilante," Grifter said as he took that final step out from behind cover, fully exposing himself to the open floor of the garage.

Red Hood stopped mid-stride, the distance between them held.

"You don't move like military either," Grifter continued, studying him carefully.

Red Hood's helmet tilted a few degrees to the side as Jason weighed his options behind his mask.

'Do I really need to finish this right now?'

Sirens could start wailing any second. And if it wasn't the cops, it'd be worse.

'Batman. Nightwing. Robin. The three musketeers.'

The thought tightened his jaw. The last thing he needed was a family reunion in the middle of this mess.

His stance, however, told a different story with guns at the ready, and shoulders squared. The red helmet reflecting the dim lights like an executioner considering where to place the blade.

"You're an assassin." Grifter wasn't expecting a proper response or confirmation for he had come to know his adversary wasn't a man of many words.

The words came through Jason's thoughts.

Jason's focus snapped back to Grifter.

He hadn't decided yet as he considered full assault, but he'd have to end things fast, then disappear before company arrived… or drop a smoke bomb and leave this problem for another night. Either way, the clock was ticking.

"I suppose a real assassin wouldn't admit that to his opponent," Grifter added, voice calm but probing.

Behind the visor, Jason finished his internal debate.

End it. Quickly.

'Even with his ability to regenerate, a bullet to the head should put him down for good.'

Grifter wasn't some random merc. He was Black Mask's shield now. That meant this wouldn't be their last encounter. If Jason wanted Roman Sionis alone—if he wanted that reckoning to happen with his own hands—then this man would have to be dealt with sooner or later.

Might as well be sooner.

The air between them thickened again, heavy with the understanding that whatever happened next would decide who walked away before the sirens closed in.

The faint wail of sirens began to thread through the night air, distant but closing in.

Grifter heard it. So did Red Hood.

"I'm not a fan of wasting time on a job," Grifter said evenly, eyes locked forward. "The faster I wrap one up, the faster I'm free to grab the next. Sometimes the next one pays even better."

Neither man lowered their weapon.

They stood in the open—two professionals fully aware of the other's skill, yet confident enough in their own to risk the exposure.

Then the silence shattered as gunfire ripped through the parking structure in sharp, concussive bursts. Sparks spat from concrete pillars. Windshields imploded, glass spraying across the floor.

The sound bounced violently off the low ceiling, turning each shot into a thunderclap.

Neither of them stayed still.

They moved as they efficiently fired at themselves with no wasted motion as they evaded the other's bullets.

Until one of the rounds clipped Grifter's side, tearing through fabric.

"Ouch," Grifter muttered, executing a one-handed reload with fluid preficiency. "You shoot like a girl."

Red Hood didn't dignify it with a response.

Instead, he holstered one pistol and pushed forward.

Grifter fired again, but Jason surged in and smashed his forearm into Grifter's shooting arm, knocking the shot off-line as a he followed through with a right hook.

Grifter ducked under, dropping low and sweeping a boot knife toward the back of Jason's knee. The blade sliced fabric as Red Hood pivoted just enough to spare the tendon.

Jason answered with a vicious front kick.

Grifter barely brought his guard up in time. Even so, the impact launched him backward into the side of a van as metal buckled inward with a heavy crunch. 'This guy is quite juiced up.' His inward remark refered to the weight and power behind every hit from Red Hood.

He hit the ground, rolled with the momentum—

—and came up firing.

Red Hood swatted both pistols off-line and stepped inside the pocket. His fist shot forward, straight. It slammed into Grifter's jaw like a piston firing from an engine block.

Grifter planted his feet as his head snapped to the side like his neck had broken.

But he didn't fall.

A tight hook whipped across and connected solidly with Jason's helmet, of which Jason's head shifted a fraction from the force.

Grifter's knuckles lit up with pain.

"Okay," he exhaled. "You're juiced."

Jason did not give a response. He drove an elbow downward that split Grifter's eyebrow open beneath his mask, then followed with a brutal knee straight into the ribs.

Something gave.

Grifter grunted as pain flashed through him, but he caught Jason's leg and twisted sharply, trying to tear his balance out from under him.

Jason didn't merely resist the pull, he powered through it.

He wrenched his leg free by force alone and spun into a backfist that cracked across Grifter's temple. The world tilted for a heartbeat, lights smearing sideways in Grifter's vision.

They broke apart, creating a sliver of space.

Both were breathing harder now.

Grifter drew again and fired point-blank in rapid succession as Jason closed in on him with swift and evasive footwork.

Close enough to engage with his sword, a knife flashed upward in a tight arc toward Jason's ribs before he could draw his sword.

Jason caught his wrist mid-stab.

The grip tightened as bone strained under pressure.

"You're good," Red Hood's distorted voice filtered through the helmet. "Just not good enough."

He twisted, forcing the knife loose, and followed with a straight punch driven deep into Grifter's already-damaged ribs.

The air blasted out of Grifter's lungs in one violent, helpless exhale.

A spinning backfist came out of nowhere and caught Grifter clean, sending him skidding across the concrete floor in a rough scrape of boots and blood.

He barely had time to breathe before Red Hood was on him again.

A heavy boot came down hard, grinding into his supposed injured thigh and pinning him in place.

Grifter hissed—but he was still smirking beneath the mask, blood running in thin lines down his face.

Jason shifted his weight, lining up the angle to finish it.

But Grifter moved first.

His dagger flashed into his grip, driving upward with every intent to drive the blade inside the upper inner thigh—aimed at the femoral artery.

Jason reacted instantly, retracting his foot and pivoting off-line as the blade cut through empty air. In the same motion, he fired downward at Grifter during the retreat.

Grifter rolled sharply, the bullet cracking against concrete where his head had been a split second earlier. Mid-roll, he fired back to keep Jason honest, the return shot forcing distance. Then he flowed up to his feet in one smooth, gymnast-like motion.

And even as he rose, the worst of his wounds were already knitting themselves together.

Although marksmanship alongside hand-to-hand combat were areas he excelled at, but Red Hood's physical enhancement caused him difficulty.

Fortunately, the Gen Factor had gifted him more.

Accelerated regeneration was obvious at this point. But he also posses other latent abilities that increase his ordds in fights.

"Next time," he rasped, adjusting his stance, "I'm charging hazard pay."

This time, he made an exception.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Grifter had once been black ops—Team Seven, the kind of covert government unit that didn't officially exist. Somewhere during those buried operations, he'd been exposed to the Gen-factor.

It left him changed.

Not in an obvious way and nothing flashy. But the difference was there, latent psychic abilities humming quietly beneath the surface, and with sharpened perception. The ability to reach, gently, into the edges of someone's mind if he focused hard enough.

So he focused.

He let his awareness stretch outward in a subtle and controlled fashion, pressing carefully against the perimeter of Red Hood's consciousness. Just a light probe. A cautious peek behind the mask.

And he snapped back almost instantly.

'What the hell…?'

There was no wall, no trained mental barrier, or even a psychic backlash.

What he'd touched didn't feel like the mind of a stable man. It was so fractured and chaotic that it repelled him.

Grifter had brushed against unstable minds before. Combat veterans. Metas unraveling at the seams. But this—

This was something else.

'That's… interesting,' he thought, studying the red helmet a little more carefully now, reassessing.

He hadn't managed to break through. Hadn't extracted a single clear thought.

But the attempt alone told him something important.

The man standing in front of him wasn't guarded in the traditional sense.

He was a mess upstairs.

And if that was true, then it wasn't surprising at all that no one could quite pin down Red Hood's motives. When a mind was that fractured, even its owner might not fully understand what was driving it.

That alone put Grifter on edge against the man before him, sharpening his focus as a new layer of caution settled over him. The distant wail of approaching sirens grew louder with every passing second, a reminder that whatever time they had left was quickly running out.

"I've always wanted to fight Batman," Grifter said casually, rolling one shoulder as if discussing the weather.

"Figured I'd settle for you instead—the guy wearing the same bat on his chest. Word is you're more violent, more merciless." He glanced toward the entrance which led to the streets as the sirens swelled. "Shame the cops are almost here. Things were just starting to get interesting."

The paycheck had been good—more than good, but money wasn't the only reason he'd taken the job. He'd wanted to test himself against Red Hood, Gotham's rumored Batman 2.0.

And maybe, just maybe, that path would lead him to the real thing.

"How about we finish this somewhere else?" he suggested. If he could end things tonight, all the better. Someone like Red Hood felt like the kind of problem that only grew worse the longer you left it alone.

"You must've read my mind," Jason replied, rolling his shoulders once, loosening the tension in his muscles. The idea of calling a truce—even a temporary one—sat poorly with him. Letting a mercenary like this walk away tonight wasn't an option.

'Better to deal with him now. Black Mask doesn't get to see the next sunrise—and I can't afford distractions,' Jason thought.

'You don't know how right—and how wrong—you are, my strange friend,' Grifter mused inwardly, faint amusement flickering beneath his mask. 'Your head's such a mess I couldn't read a damn thing.'

Aloud, he said, "You lead. I'm guessing you know this city better than I do."

Red Hood's helmet tilted slightly, his lenses locking onto him. "And how do I know you won't put a bullet in my back?"

Grifter didn't even pause.

"You don't."

Jason held his gaze for a moment longer, seeming silent and cold, measuring the man in front of him. Then he nodded once.

"Stay close—but keep your distance," he instructed, already angling toward the exit.

"Try to keep up."

Without waiting for an answer, both men moved at the same instant, breaking into a sprint and vanishing into the night just seconds before the GCPD flooded the scene.

- - -

Batman and his team were stretched thin, juggling the containment of a sudden highway explosion and the urgent rescue of civilians caught in its chaos.

The blast had ripped through the roadside, toppling streetlights and scattering debris across the lanes. The source of the explosion remained a mystery, but thanks to Batman and the boys, casualties had so far been minimal.

"It's alright, you're both okay," Nightwing said gently, guiding a father and son from a car that had flipped over when the bomb detonated beneath it while they were in motion.

"You're lucky you both had your seatbelts on," Robin added, his tone firm but reassuring. The father and son clung to each other tightly, adrenaline still racing as the memory of their near-death experience lingered.

As Robin led them to safety, an officer waiting to take custody of the civilians, the boy looked up at him with wide admiration. "Thanks, Robin," he said softly. His father echoed the gratitude, nodding to both Robin and Nightwing, who brought up the rear as the last of the trapped civilians were escorted from danger.

"Just doing my job, kid," Robin said, his tone carrying it's usual edge of superiority. Nightwing fought to stifle a laugh, one that threatened to escape at the wrong moment. The boy they'd just rescued seemed momentarily taken aback, he could see him and Robin should likely be around same age range.

"What?" Robin snapped, turning to Nightwing with his usual stern glare as the officer guided the civilians toward an awaiting ambulance.

"Nothing," Nightwing muttered, a chuckle slipping past his lips anyway. Robin's brow furrowed deeper, his glare sharpening.

Before he could retort, Batman appeared, striding over from a discussion with Commissioner Gordon about the sudden attack and the possible motives behind it.

"Black Mask's company was hit not long ago," Batman said, stopping in front of his sons. "Two explosives detonated in the building—probably an RPG. Luckily, he made it out alive."

Nightwing raised a brow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "What are the odds our brother in red pulled this highway stunt just to lure us away, then went on to blow up Black Mask's place without us noticing?"

"I'd like to say not likely," Batman replied, eyes narrowing beneath a deepening scowl. "But he's proven over and over that he's unpredictable. He takes extreme, unwarranted actions that no one could reasonably anticipate."

Robin tilted his head, thinking it through. "If he's responsible, why blow up the building? He could have easily taken out Black Mask with a sniper."

"Who knows why that crazy son of a bitch does anything?" Nightwing said without hesitation, not bothering to think it over.

"Don't waste your brain cells, kid," He added. "Best to assume he's behind both attacks."

Robin frowned, but before he could respond, Batman's gaze sharpened. "No use dwelling on it now. There's been a report of a shootout in the parking lot of a residential building."

"Just great," Nightwing muttered as the Batwing descended toward them, hovering silently above. "What are the chances he's involved in this too?" he asked as ziplines deployed from the craft, dropping into their midst just as Batman tapped his utility belt.

"I guess three times the charm," Nightwing added with a wry, sarcastic twist as each of them grabbed a zipline.

"Then he's had quite a busy night," Batman replied evenly as the ziplines carried them toward the open hatch of the Batwing.

"More like he's making a lot more work for us," Robin muttered. He didn't like the idea of spending the night constantly reacting to Jason's moves, feeling as if they were being forced to dance to his chaotic rhythm.

That's what they get for sticking their noses into whatever mess he had with Black Mask, Robin thought grimly, as they slipped into the Batwing's open hatch and shot off toward the scene of the reported shootout.


- - -

They moved into a quieter stretch of Gotham, a neighborhood where any earlier gunfire would have long since faded into silence before the police even got a tip. Not that the GCPD never patrolled the area—but the thugs here were ruthless enough that even uniformed officers were at serious risk.

Eventually, they arrived at a junkyard nestled in the heart of the district. Rusted cars and piles of scrap littered the ground, a chaotic landscape that could serve as either an advantage or a disadvantage.

How it would play out depended entirely on who could make good used of the environment to their advantage—and exploit it against the other.

The two men faced each other across the scrapyard, guns holstered out of mutual respect for each other's reflexes. Wasting bullets would be foolish; yet both remained tense, alert to every slight movement, knowing a single misstep could cost them dearly.

"It's a good thing you picked the location," Grifter said slowly, drawing his daggers, fingers tightening around the hilts. "Otherwise, you might have just picked the place where you die."

He dropped into a low, ready stance, eyes locked on his opponent, with every muscle primed for the first strike.

"On the contrary, I don't think so," Red Hood replied, his hand moving toward the hilt of the sword slung across his back. "I almost feel bad for you… if only you hadn't taken this job."

He deliberately drew the blade at a slow pace, almost seeming ritualistic, a display of confidence that left no doubt in his mind about who would come out on top.

"What can I say? A man's gotta eat," Grifter replied, shrugging as he adjusted his stance.

Red Hood's blade sliced a clean diagonal through the air as he settled into his fighting stance. "Your blood won't be on my hands," he said coldly, "but on the man you've chosen to protect, at the cost of your own life. Quite the irony."

"You talk a big game—let's see if you can back it up," Grifter shot back, tossing something to the ground. The moment it crossed the space between them, it erupted in a flash and bang.

Red Hood's line of sight was momentarily obstructed by the explosion, and Grifter seized the opportunity, lunging forward with his daggers aimed to sink into flesh.

But just as he closed in, a flurry of ninja throwing stars shot from the smoke, hurling straight at him, forcing him to stagger back mid-lunge.

"Such a pathetic attempt at an attack," Grifter mocked, effortlessly deflecting the throwing stars with his dagger.

His eyes stayed locked on the smoke, which twisted and shifted like a living thing, as though the man hidden within it was charging straight at him for a follow-up strike.

He planted his feet and swung the blade in his right hand at the shadowy figure bursting from the smoke—only for Grifter to see a flash of Red Hood's brown jacket… and nothing else.

'What!?' Grifter thought, caught off guard, as the corner of his eye picked up Red Hood's figure lunging toward his torso with the sword. 'So fast.' It felt as though the blade would slice right through him, clean as a hot knife through butter.

Reacting on pure instinct, Grifter shifted his weight and leapt backward, spinning away from the strike while bringing the dagger in his left hand to parry and evade the deadly swing.

But the force of the blade knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling to the dirt. His fall rolled seamlessly into a quick recovery, and he immediately lifted his gaze to keep sight of his opponent.

Not a sound of approaching steps had reached him, and his eyes widened in shock. Red Hood had closed the distance almost instantly—his enhanced physique and the momentum from the previous stance putting him well within striking range of Red Hood's sword.

Just coming out of the roll, Grifter was low, and even with his fast reflexes, his options in that split second were painfully limited. One wrong move could—and almost did—cost him everything.

"Shit!" he cursed as Jason's blade arced toward his neck, only to freeze mid-swing. Red Hood remained locked in that strike position, a sudden statue of intent.

'What the hell!?' Jason thought, eyes glued to the mercenary, who exhaled sharply in relief, realizing the immediate danger had passed.

Grifter fully aware of the limits of his psychic abilities, seized the moment as Red Hood wavered at the edge of his telekinetic grasp.

He drew his gun in a swift motion.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

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