The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Damian Wayne's POV]

Gotham's nightlife had been boiling over these past few days, noisier and more restless than usual. It wasn't hard to figure out why—the bounty. Jason's bounty. Ten million dollars for a single head. It was enough to set every gutter rat, trigger-happy merc, and wannabe killer loose on the streets.

Even the smallest criminals, the kind who normally kept to their pathetic little corners, were suddenly bold, looking at Red Hood like he was a winning lottery ticket walking around in body armor.

I kept hearing the same whispers wherever I went. Ten million. Ten million. Ten million. It clung to Gotham's air like the stink of smoke after a fire.

And even though father forbade it, I couldn't help myself. I'd been using my patrol hours to search, to hunt, to watch the city for any trace of him. Not for the bounty.

Never for that. I wanted to find Jason. I wanted to speak with him.

For over a week I scoured rooftops, alleys, and streets, yet not even a glimpse of him. It was as if he had dissolved into Gotham's shadows. He had gone silent. Some would take that as cowardice, but I didn't believe it for a second. I didn't know him before the League, but I knew grandfather well enough. Ra's al Ghul never trained cowards. Which meant Jason was still out here, somewhere. Watching. Waiting. The question was—where?

Tonight was no different. Twenty minutes of leaping over rooftops, scanning every corner, and still nothing. Even when a burglary broke out down below—a jewelry store, the windows shattered, alarms screaming—he didn't appear. If Red Hood truly "protected" his so-called territory, wouldn't he have intervened?

I dropped in and handled it myself. The burglars folded easily enough; a few broken noses were enough to end their ambition for the night. Blood smeared across my gloves as I perched near a gargoyle, shaking it off with a sharp flick of my wrist. "Doesn't he protect his own territory?" I muttered aloud, irritation bubbling in my chest.

That's when the voice cut through the night.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, kid?"

The sound startled me enough that my body reacted before my mind did—I spun around, blade sliding free, boots stepping back from the gargoyle to claim solid footing on the rooftop. My eyes swept the shadows behind me, scanning every line and angle. No one. Nothing but the whisper of wind. My grip on the sword tightened.

"I see you have plenty of time on your hands if this is what you're doing." There it was again. A voice, calm, deep, carrying that distorted edge of a modulator.

My heart leapt into my throat, and then I saw him. Jason—no, Red Hood—perched on the gargoyle I had just abandoned.

Helmet gleaming under the pale light, posture relaxed, gun resting low at his hip like some gunslinger out of the West. He wasn't aiming it, not yet. Just holding it there, close, reminding me he could draw faster than I could blink.

With narrowed eyes, I answered him sharply. "Patrolling is a duty, not a waste of time." My voice didn't waver, but inside I couldn't decide whether I should be wary of him or treat him like the annoying bastard who kept forcing himself back into my life out of nowhere.

He tilted his head, almost curious, like he was studying me. "I meant chasing after someone who doesn't want to be found. That's a waste of time. But since we're going down this road… yeah. Patrolling is a waste of time if you're not putting down the mad dogs that actually need to be put down. Not tossing them into Arkham just so they can take a short vacation before the system spits them back out into society again."

Of all the words he spoke, that last part dug at me the most. I almost found myself agreeing, almost leaning into the temptation of it. But I kept my expression cold. I already knew where I stood on that matter, and I wasn't about to show him.

"Wait," I said slowly, piecing it together.

"You knew I was searching for you? All this time?"

"For someone who walks with the Bat, you weren't doing a great job," Jason replied, casual as ever. He gave a slight shrug, gun still resting against his hip. "Guess I'll have to make sure you never try again. Besides, what would a kid like you want ten million dollars for?"

The words cut, not because they carried truth, but because of the insult behind them. Did he really think I was chasing him for the bounty? Did he see me as that low?

My grip tightened on my sword. "So which is it? Jason? Todd? Or …the Red Hood?" I asked, refusing to dance around it any longer.

He chuckled beneath the mask, the sound dry and bitter. "I see Bruce told you about me. Huh. I'll admit, I'm surprised. Thought he'd keep that our little secret. Guess he's gone soft over the years."

I said nothing, letting silence be my shield. I wasn't going to play into whatever game he was baiting me into.

And then—everything changed.

The air thickened. His posture didn't move, but something shifted, something primal and terrifying. It was like the rooftop itself shrank, like the night turned sharp around me. A wave of killing intent rolled off him, pressing down on me, cold and suffocating.

"I might have to kill you," Jason said softly, almost conversational. "Since you know who I am under the hood."

He wasn't bluffing. I felt it—every nerve in my body screamed at me that he meant it. A violent shiver crawled up my spine, my legs almost trembling against my will. My grip on the blade faltered as sweat dampened my palms, the weapon threatening to slip free. My throat tightened, forcing out a gulp I couldn't stop. I was sweating, but I was freezing at the same time, paralyzed in the grip of something I couldn't shake.

I hated it. I hated this weakness.

From below came startled voices, carried up from the streets. "Hey… what's going on?"

"Dude, you feel that?"

"Something doesn't feel right."

"Let's get out of here!" Through the corner of my eye, I saw them—men scattering into the dark, abandoning whatever crime or shadow business they'd been tangled in. They ran like animals fleeing a predator.

And I understood them. How was he doing this? What had Jason become?

And more importantly—what was he going to do to me?

Questions tore through my thoughts, frantic, piling one atop the other as I fought to break free of the invisible chokehold he'd wrapped around me.

I stood there, frozen. The Red Hood was right in front of me, closing the distance at a pace that felt unbearably slow, deliberate—like a predator circling prey it had already decided was too small to escape.

His hand slid over his right shoulder, fingers curling around the crowbar strapped to his back. Every second stretched out longer than the last, and the air grew heavier with the suffocating weight of his presence.

My chest tightened as I struggled to breathe. Why couldn't I move? Why were my legs betraying me? Those thugs earlier managed to scramble away—even if it was a pathetic, sluggish retreat, at least they had motion. Me? I was rooted in place.

Maybe it was because I was closer, maybe it was because I could feel every ounce of bloodlust rolling off him like smoke. It was terrifying to realize that this suffocating pressure wasn't even directed at me fully, but I was still drowning under it.

The crowbar slid free, its metallic scrape sharp in my ears. He wasn't even rushing—he drew it slowly, almost mockingly, like he wanted me to feel each second dig into my nerves. My pulse hammered against my throat. Was this how others saw him? Was this what Gotham's criminals felt before he struck?

I clenched my teeth. No—if I was truly trapped, then I had only one way out. Pain. I could bite down hard enough on my tongue, shock my body into movement, tear myself out of the paralysis. But I hated that it had come to this. I hated that he made me even consider it.

WHAM.

The sound wasn't from the crowbar. It was the sudden collapse of pressure, vanishing as quickly as it came. My lungs sucked in air sharply, too quickly, and the weight slid off me, leaving nothing but a clammy memory on my skin. Goosebumps prickled up my arms, and sweat dampened my collar. My pride burned hotter than my fear.

"Relax, lil devil." His voice cut in, teasing, casual—as if the last thirty seconds hadn't been a nightmare. He lifted his hands to his helmet, twisting it off with a hiss.

I glared at him, scowling. "Oh, that's funny to you?" My voice cracked with annoyance, sharper than I wanted.

"Yeah." His smirk carried no remorse. He was always like this. Push you to the edge, then laugh when you scrambled for footing. That bastard would drag you through hell just to amuse himself. I was seconds away from biting through my own tongue, and he found it entertaining.

Jason turned, strolling toward the ledge with the same careless gait he always had. He dropped down, resting on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over Gotham's endless nightscape. "You know, for a kid born and bred in the League of Assassins, you're doing a pretty poor job at staying hidden during patrols." His voice was half-tease, half-critique.

My jaw tightened. How long had he been watching me? The thought made my stomach twist. Had I been patrolling for nights, thinking myself unseen, only to have him perched in the shadows, studying me?

"What was that?" I finally asked, forcing my voice steady, but my chest still felt uneven. I meant the suffocating bloodlust, though I didn't want to admit how shaken it had left me.

Jason didn't even bother looking at me. "Come on, Damian, you aren't that dense."

So it was intentional. He admitted it without saying the words, and that only made me hate it more.

Just what had he gone through to wield that kind of killing intent? What kind of scars did it take to summon that pressure at will, then tuck it away like it was nothing? I couldn't stop myself from wondering if I'd ever carry that kind of darkness—or if I already did.

"Can I ask a question?" My voice came quieter this time.

Jason squinted at me, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "That's all you've been doing all evening."

I shot him a glare, but deep down, I knew he missed this—the constant banter, the little jabs. He acted like it was just to irritate me, but I could see the flicker in his eyes when he teased me. It was the closest thing he allowed himself to call affection.

"Is it about sex?" he shot back suddenly, grin widening.

My face heated instantly. "What? No!" I snapped, more defensive than I meant to be. I hated that he caught me off guard so easily.

"Good. Save that conversation for your old man when the time comes." His tone was dismissive, but I could hear the faint amusement behind it.

This bastard. My fists curled, and I wanted nothing more than to sock him just once, right in the jaw. Not because it would change anything—but because it would wipe that smug look off his face for at least a second.

"You seem calm for a guy with a bounty on his head," I muttered, trying to change the subject before he got under my skin further.

Jason leaned back slightly, shrugging like it meant nothing. "Yeah, can you believe Black Mask? Ten million. He must really underestimate me if he thinks that's all I'm worth." His grin held no fear, no tension.

More like he was entertained.


I studied him. Even with his memories back, even with the blood on his hands, he seemed unshaken. Maybe this really was who he was—Jason Todd, reckless and cocky, armor made of defiance and scars.

"I see you're still as cocky as ever." I sat beside him, my legs dangling off the ledge as well. Gotham stretched beneath us—silent, sprawling, ugly and beautiful all at once. "Mother told me about what happened with Deathstroke at Lian Yu."

His jaw tightened briefly, though he didn't turn toward me. "I did everything in my power to make sure Slade paid for what he did to Ra's al Ghul."

I blinked, unsure how to follow that. I had expected something else in his voice—but it was steady, almost reflective. The awkward silence between us deepened, heavier than before.

"Now you're this big bad Red Hood," I said finally, trying to break it.

"That about sums it up." He shrugged, brushing it off like it was just another mask. "Your dad doesn't know you've been looking for me, does he?"

I didn't answer. My silence was all the confirmation he needed.

Jason's eyes narrowed slightly behind the shadows. "You've spent most of your life in the League. Do you really agree with Bruce's definition of justice?"

The question cut deeper than I expected. My father's code had always been there, looming, binding. "I can't say I do," I admitted. "It goes against everything I believed in for most of my life. But… he makes the rules. And as much as I'd like to, I can't go against his no-kill rule."

Jason nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's good. Stick with it. You might find a better way to weaponize that code for he's to your advantage. Besides, kids your age should be worried about crushes and school bullies, not spilling blood."

I almost laughed at the hypocrisy. "Father said you were barely ten when you became Robin."

"Yeah, I'm not the best person to give advice on this sort of thing," he admitted, his voice dropping softer. "But from experience, I'll say this—be yourself.

Always. There's no shame in it. But when Bruce tells you to listen on things that could risk your life, do it. He means well, even if it doesn't feel like it."

That wasn't the kind of talk I'd expected from him. For once, he wasn't teasing, mocking, or baiting me. He was… honest. It unsettled me more than his bloodlust had.

"Unlike me, you might only get to live once," he added, staring down at the helmet in his lap.

"You don't have to worry," I said quickly, trying to reassure him—or maybe myself. "I'm always careful."

Jason chuckled, low and dry. "Pfft. Like you get to choose who you're matched up against. Or the odds of walking away alive." He slid the helmet back over his head, sealing his face behind that cold red mask.

"You're leaving?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Yeah. All this chitchat is making me feel weird inside." His sarcasm was back, a shield for whatever softness had slipped through earlier.

He rose, turned toward the edge, then paused. "Meet me here tomorrow night. You might learn a thing or two." His voice carried the same cocky tone, but I caught the faint thread of sincerity beneath it.

Then, without hesitation, he dropped off the ledge—vanishing into Gotham's shadows like a madman with a death wish.

And I was left sitting there, the echo of his words ringing louder than the silence of the city below.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Any news yet?" Roman Sionis asked his secretary, his voice sharp and restless, betraying the nerves he tried so hard to mask. He was pacing behind his desk, the dim office light glinting off the carved lines of his black mask.

"No," she answered simply.

"I thought one of those bastards would've killed him already! Or are they waiting till it's goddamn Halloween to make it dramatic?" Roman's shout carried across the room, his tone dripping with anger and desperation. His hands twitched as if itching to grab something to smash.

"I highly doubt it, sir," Ms. Li replied, her tone steady, almost bored. She had grown used to his tantrums, his outbursts no longer carrying the shock value he seemed to think they did. "If he were that easy to track, we wouldn't be caught in this endless back-and-forth with him."

"I put a bounty on that bastard's head," Roman snapped, slamming his hand against the desk. "So now it's either one of those greedy vultures kills him first… or he gets to me before they do."

"Well, you should've thought of that before making a move like that." The words slipped out sharp and honest, something she had been holding back for hours. But she knew she couldn't keep bottling it up. Her boss was reckless, impulsive—anger always dictating his hand before reason could temper it.

If he had just waited the hour and cooled off after that disastrous meeting, if he had returned to his office, she might've been able to talk him down. Instead, he'd gone ahead with his usual instinct to lash out first and think later.

Roman wheeled on her, fists tight. "What did you expect me to do? Hire another band of assassins? Comb through the market for washed-up mercs who'll charge me an arm and a leg for nothing but excuses? No! Absolutely not." His voice shook with the force of his reasoning, irrational yet—at least to him—utterly logical.

"Hell no," he continued, pacing now like a caged animal. "I'd rather put the money out there, let the whole city know there's someone willing to pay for that fucker's head. That way, all of them get to work, competing with each other. Eventually someone succeeds, gets a one-time payout, and I don't waste another dime on failure."

Ms. Li's face remained neutral, but her mind was weary. His logic was hollow, little more than a gamble with his own life as the stake. But he was her employer. All she could do was nod politely, pretending to agree with his warped sense of strategy. Fighting him on it wasn't worth the stress—or the risk.

Without another word, she left his office, the sound of the heavy door closing behind her a relief. She signed off work for the night, her body craving release from the long day. She needed a drink—something strong enough to wash away her frustration.

The city was damp with leftover rain, neon signs reflecting in thin puddles that clung stubbornly to the sidewalks. The prestigious bar she favored wasn't far, tucked into the corner of a polished street where expensive cars lined the curb and the sound of muffled jazz drifted from within.

Pushing open the heavy door, she stepped into warm golden light and low chatter. The smell of oak-aged liquor clung to the air. She made her way straight to the counter, sliding her coat from her shoulders and hanging it neatly over the chair before sitting down.

By the time she settled onto the barstool, a glass of whiskey was already placed in front of her, ice cubes clinking softly inside. She blinked at it, caught off guard. "I haven't ordered yet," she said flatly.

The bartender tilted his head toward the far end of the counter. "Oh, someone bought you that drink."

Her eyes narrowed. She rolled them almost immediately, already tired of men attempting the same predictable gesture. She was on the verge of rejecting it when she saw him—Randy. Or Jason, though she knew him only by the name he'd given. That streak of white in his dark hair was unmistakable, catching in the bar's warm light.

"Thanks for the drink," she said, lifting the glass with a measured hand.

"Of course," he replied smoothly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to feel genuine. "You looked like you could use one." His gaze lingered a moment longer, studying her with a quiet ease before adding, "Maybe a couple more."

She arched a brow at that. "You could tell?" Most people couldn't read her at all; she had perfected the art of appearing untouchable, unreadable. But here he was, cutting right through that armor with an offhand remark.

Jason gave a small shrug, leaning back casually. "You've got a different look in your eyes than last night. Like something's weighing on you. You seem… bothered."

It was unsettling, being read so easily, but she didn't let it show. She raised the glass and took a sip, her expression unreadable as ever. "Work has been annoying lately," she said finally, her tone even, her words stripped of emotion.

That was enough to start their conversation. They went back and forth as the night deepened, whiskey glasses refilled and emptied while the hum of the bar faded into background noise. She was surprised at herself—surprised at how much she enjoyed speaking with him. There was something unpolished, direct, and strangely calming about him.

Eventually, Jason glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. "I'd love to sit here and talk all night, but I've still got a long night ahead of me." He stood, pulling his jacket from the chair and swinging it onto his shoulders with practiced ease.

"You're leaving already?" she asked, a hint of disappointment slipping through before she could stop it. She wasn't used to wanting more conversation.

"Yeah," he said with a half-smile, sliding his arms into the jacket. "Promised I'd take my kid brother somewhere tonight."

Her brows lifted slightly. "A responsible older brother, huh?"

Jason chuckled, a teasing spark in his eyes. "I don't know about responsible. But I do what I can." He locked eyes with her as he adjusted his collar, his smirk laced with a subtle charm. "See you around. Hopefully next time you're in a better mood."

And then he was gone, leaving her with a strange sense of emptiness she couldn't name. She sat quietly for a moment, sipping what was left of her drink, before realizing with a small jolt that she was—against her better judgment—attracted to him. That thought lingered long after he disappeared into the city night.

Meanwhile, Jason slipped out into the damp streets, his expression hardening as he ducked into a dark alley. His jacket shifted, and by the time he emerged again he was no longer Randy but Red Hood—helmet on, weapons strapped, moving with the calm confidence of a predator. He headed straight for the rendezvous point.

"You're late," Damian said sharply, perched on the rooftop edge with his arms crossed. His tone was sharp, annoyed, the kind of irritation that masked curiosity.

Jason waved him off casually. "Relax, kid. I was having a drink with a pretty girl."

Damian didn't even want to know. His frown deepened. "Moving on. Why'd you drag me out here tonight?"

Jason tilted his head, as if the question caught him off guard. "I don't know. Maybe to show off." Even his answer carried no real conviction, as though he hadn't fully thought it through himself.

"Show off?" Damian's eyes narrowed, skeptical. He didn't like vague games.

Jason pointed down at the street below, where a neon bar sign flickered against the darkness. "You see that place? Probably packed with idiots who know about the bounty. Idiots stupid enough to think they can claim it."

And without waiting for Damian's reply, Jason stepped off the rooftop. The kid's scowl deepened as he leaned forward to watch. Seconds later, Red Hood strolled through the front door of the bar, movements deliberate, relaxed, like a man walking into his own living room.

It took less than a minute before the bar erupted. Bodies came crashing through the windows and doors, thrown into the street with violent force. Screams followed, mixed with the sharp crack of furniture breaking. And then Jason walked out calmly, brushing glass from his jacket as if it were lint. A small mob of thugs and bounty-hunters poured out after him, weapons drawn, faces twisted with greed and bloodlust as they surrounded him under the pale streetlight.

The hunters had thought numbers would save them. That confidence shattered the moment Jason dropped the first two bodies. But instead of fear clearing the rest, desperation made them reckless. A bounty that high drew out men who had nothing left to lose.

Jason stood in the rain-slick street, chest rising slow and steady beneath his jacket, while the circle closed tighter. His pistols gleamed under the streetlights, barrels smoking faintly.

"Still here?" Jason taunted, holstering one gun and reaching behind his belt. "Fine. Let's make this interesting."

In a fluid motion, he pulled a small disk and flung it low across the pavement. It clinked once—then erupted in a sharp crack, spraying a flash of light and smoke. The hunters staggered back, coughing, blinded. Jason dove into the haze like a wolf in fog.

Damian leaned forward on the rooftop, eyes narrowing. His mind catalogued everything—smoke deployment, timing, angles. Father would have used it for cover and disengaged. Jason used it to slaughter.

A scream cut through the smoke. Jason had yanked one man into a chokehold, driving his combat knife deep between the ribs before kicking the limp body into another.

The smoke swirled around them like a shroud, broken only by muzzle flashes as Jason fired into shadows. The shots weren't wasted—Damian could tell from the pattern, from the way bodies dropped as the smoke thinned.

"Calculated chaos," Damian muttered under his breath. His chest tightened, a strange pang running through him. He hated admitting it, but it was genius. Terrifying genius.

The haze cleared just in time for the next wave to charge. Jason flipped a switch on his belt and tossed something metallic. A sharp click echoed—then a concussive blast sent hunters sprawling like ragdolls. One man's leg bent grotesquely beneath him; another slammed against a dumpster and didn't move again.

Jason strode forward through the wreckage, calm, deliberate. "You boys ever stop to think why no one collects this bounty?" His voice carried, low and cold. "Because every time, it ends like this."

A hunter scrambled to his knees, pulling a knife with shaking hands. Jason didn't even break stride. He snapped a grapple line to the man's wrist, yanked it hard enough to tear ligaments, then reeled him in only to drive a boot straight into his skull. The crack echoed down the alley.

Damian's hands curled into fists. Every move screamed dominance. Jason wasn't beating them alone, he was breaking them. He was teaching. Every snap of bone, every scream of pain, it was psychological warfare aimed not at the ones lying in blood, but at the survivors still clinging to their courage.

And Damian could see it working.

The last few hunters hesitated. Their weapons shook. Some even backed away.

Jason holstered his pistols, deliberately. He wanted them to see it. To think he was giving them a chance. Then he reached into his jacket and drew out a crowbar. The sight of it alone made some freeze like deer in headlights. Jason twirled it once, casually.

"Now," he said, his voice heavy with cruel amusement, "let's see how much you really want that money."

What followed wasn't a fight. It was an execution line. Jason smashed knees, shattered jaws, and left grown men screaming for their mothers. The sound of metal hitting flesh rang out in the alley like church bells, relentless and rhythmic.

Damian's heart thudded harder than he expected as he watched. His training told him this was excess. Sloppy. Wasteful. But his gut… his gut told him it was power. Raw, undeniable power. A presence that no cape, no code, no emblem of justice could ever match.

And for the first time, Damian felt the edges of doubt creep into his mind. His father taught control. The League taught precision. But Jason Todd—the Red Hood—showed him domination.

And maybe, just maybe, there was something in him that wanted that more than either.

When the last hunter lay broken and whimpering on the pavement, Jason let the crowbar drop with a clatter. He stood over the wreckage of men, chest heaving slightly, rain dripping red from his gloves. Then, almost instinctively, his helmet tilted up—toward the rooftop.

Damian froze.

Jason didn't speak this time. He just stared, the glowing eyes of his helmet locking with Damian's. No words. No taunts. Just a silent challenge, heavy as the night itself.

Damian swallowed hard. And for the first time in years… he felt small.

- - -

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

After a long night out with my little brother, I sent him off with a reminder of what the League had trained us to do. That kid has sharpened up. More mature than the scrappy boy I remembered sparring with under the League's suffocating walls.

Maybe time with Bruce has rubbed off on him. Or maybe it's just the years—growing older, living with his father, and learning to carry himself with that arrogant calm Wayne blood seems to breed. Whatever it is, Damian isn't the same boy I used to know. He's grown. A bit.

As for me? I'm not in Gotham tonight. I'm perched on a ferris wheel at a pre-Halloween carnival in Metropolis, milkshake in hand, sipping through a plastic straw while a pair of binoculars hangs snug against my eyes.

From up here, the carnival looks like a scatter of painted lights bleeding into the night air, the scent of fried dough and roasted peanuts rising with the laughter of families and teenagers hopped up on sugar. Below me, kids scream on roller coasters, parents herd toddlers through the crowd, and the air feels almost too cheerful for a man like me to sit in.

But my eyes aren't on the rides or the families. My sight is fixed on one family in particular—a man and his six-year-old son.

The man? None other than John Stuart, the Mayor of Gotham City.

So why is the Red Hood, of all people, sitting in another city, playing voyeur on a father-son bonding moment like some creep with a straw in his mouth? Simple. John Stuart is a man with actual political power, the kind of man whose strings, if pulled hard enough, could bend certain things my way. A mayor with weaknesses is a mayor I can use.

"Hey dude, this was your fift ride." The wheel operator broke my focus as the ferris wheel slowed to a stop, my cart rocking slightly. His hands were shoved in his vest pockets, his expression already annoyed. "So… just fill up again and hit the button for the sixth one, yeah?"

"There are kids who want to ride," he pressed.

"Like I care," I muttered, sliding off the cart, not even sparing him a glance. My target was moving again anyway.

The crowd didn't make it subtle. Parents threw me a mix of cautious stares, protective and suspicious, while kids whispered like I was some freak that didn't belong here. Teenagers stared longer, half curious, half put off.

These people—these normal fuckers—don't even realize how lucky they are. They get to live their plain little lives. Safe. Sheltered. With family outings to carnivals, sugar highs, and rides on ferris wheels that end with warm smiles. They get to grow up normal.

Well, that's the reason we fight crimes. So these families could live a normal life and not have to suffer lose of a family member due to criminal or villaineous activity.

Sure, sometimes I envy them. But truth is, I don't regret what I am. My life is brutal, sure, but it's mine. It's fun, intense, and—between the occasional pull of bloodlust and the endless weight of vengeance—I'm free in ways they'll never understand.

My attention slid back to the mayor. John was playing carnival games with his son, tossing rings and shooting fake rifles, his politician's smile softened by genuine affection for the kid. Cute. But not everyone hanging around was there for cotton candy and family fun.

I'd clocked them as soon as I sat down for the stakeout—men dressed like civilians, blending into the crowd, but walking patterns around the father and son. Security detail. Not official. Too quiet. Their eyes never strayed from their mark.

I'd been digging for dirt on John for weeks now. Broke into his office, flipped through notes, hacked into files—nothing. All I found was a reminder about this little father-son outing. But there was a silver lining, a reason I dragged myself out to Metropolis in the first place.

John had an unofficial meeting scheduled with the Mayor of Metropolis. Which begged the question—what the hell could they need to discuss here, hidden behind balloons and carnival games, instead of some closed chamber in a government building?

And just as I asked myself that, here came the answer.

The Mayor of Metropolis arrived, dressed like he belonged here, shaking John's hand with a warm smile before John sent his son off into the carnival with a gentle pat. Their security closed in subtly, giving them space, but their eyes stayed sharp.

I decided to blend into the stream of people. Bought myself a stick of cotton candy. Had nothing to do with the mission. I just like cotton candy. I let the sugar melt on my tongue while watching them head toward the pier, away from the noise.

Propping myself against a railing, I set up a minimalistic directional mic, hidden well enough to avoid drawing eyes, and pointed it toward their little private talk. Recorder running. I leaned back and listened.

And let me tell you—if boredom could kill, I'd have been a corpse on the pier. Twenty minutes of droning about policies, voters, tax reforms. The kind of chatter that would make even politicians yawn. Then, finally, things started to heat up.

"Luthor's been on my ass," the Metropolis mayor grumbled. "You're lucky you're in Gotham where he doesn't need something from you too often."

"I'm grateful for that every day," John replied, his voice edged with sincerity. "He terrifies me."

"Of course he does. Man's a genius, but he's insane. Everyone's too terrified to stand up to him."

"Don't even think about standing up to him," John shot back, a warning in his tone. "We both have families. Not even the military could protect us from what that lunatic might do if we cross him."

"Yeah," the Metropolis mayor sighed. "The moment we shook his hand and took his deals, he owned us. Us and other politicians across the country."

The conversation stretched on for nearly another hour. Half the time they drifted into coded words I couldn't fully decipher. Whatever those words meant, they weren't meant for others to understand their purpose. Eventually, they wrapped things up and filtered back into the carnival crowd. John collected his son, their night resuming as if nothing had been whispered behind closed lips of the pier.

And me? I was left with scraps.

Sure, I'd learned that both mayors were tangled in Lex Luthor's web, but that alone wasn't enough. Not the kind of leverage I needed to blackmail John into bending to my will. I didn't just want dirt. I needed a scandal—something that would leave him begging me not to spill.

Time was against me. Black Mask was already frothing at the mouth back in Gotham, wondering why I'd gone dark on him. But I had one last shot at pulling something useful.

The upcoming Gotham Halloween charity event.

Anyone who was anyone in Gotham—politicians, the wealthy, the power brokers—would be there. They'd drink too much, let their masks and guards slip. Something useful might spill.

Me at a party though? That was the strange part. I could barely remember the last one I went to. Been years since I celebrated Halloween, and even then, the memory was faint and bloodstained. Maybe this year I'd make an appearance. Mask and all. After all, it is supposed to be a costume party.

- - -


The Batcave was quiet that night, with a kind of silence that wasn't empty but charged—filled with the constant hum of computers and the faint dripping of water echoing from the stalactites above.

Screens glowed across the dark expanse, throwing cold blue light against stone walls and steel platforms. Bruce stood at the central console, posture rigid, his eyes focused on the monitor but his voice carrying enough weight to command the attention of the two young men standing nearby.

"It's been a couple weeks and still no sign of the Red Hood," Bruce began, his voice low, steady, but with that underlying tension he always carried when Jason's name came up. "Only an incident at a bar, one that left more than a handful of bodies and several badly injured. Reports say the Red Hood was the assailant… allegedly."

Damian and Dick stood on either side of him, the glow of the screens painting sharp lines across their faces. Everyone knew this wasn't just about crime or tactics.

"He's been off the grid since that bounty was put on his head," Dick said, leaning against the railing and rubbing at his jaw with thought. His tone carried curiosity but also an unease he wasn't trying to hide. "So why act out now?"

"That's the million-dollar question," Bruce replied without missing a beat. His voice was calm, but his expression remained tight, jaw clenched.

Damian, meanwhile, stayed quiet. The boy stood with his arms loosely crossed, eyes lowered just enough to avoid meeting Bruce's. He looked detached, uninterested even, though beneath that mask of composure he was replaying the events of that night—remembering exactly what he'd seen when he'd been with Jason. He knew more than he was letting on.

"Maybe, like everything else he's done, this is just another statement," Dick offered, pushing himself upright with his arms folded. "Saying he's not scared. That a price on his head isn't enough to make him lay low."

Bruce exhaled slowly, still studying the data scrolling across the monitors. "That's possible," he admitted. "But Jason's mind… it's not something we can pin down easily right now." His gaze flickered toward Damian, sharp and searching. "You're unusually quiet. Care to share what's on your mind?"

Damian's expression was unreadable as he met Bruce's stare. "Nothing at all," he answered evenly, voice calm in that measured, almost disinterested way he used when hiding something. "Only that the Jason I knew never acted without orders. At least, not when he served under my grandfather."

Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing. Dick, however, tilted his head. "He'll slip up eventually," he added, trying to lighten the weight in the room. "They always do."

"And when he does?" Damian's tone sharpened slightly. "What's the plan then? Do we arrest him?"

The words landed heavier than expected. Dick's brows shot up, and his gaze immediately shifted to Bruce, silently asking the same thing. He wanted answers too.

"I don't know," Bruce admitted after a long pause, voice quieter this time. "But I need to talk to him. Face to face. Only then will I know what to do."

Dick frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bruce shifted his weight, as he stepped closer to the console. "We don't know if he's acting on his own or if this is residue of Ra's al Ghul's programming from his time with the League. Or maybe… the Lazarus Pit warped his mind further than we thought. It changes people. It can confuse them, pull them away from who they were."

Dick shook his head, letting out a quiet scoff. "You're making it sound like some kind of phase. You know Jason—he's always been headstrong, always believed there was a better way to deal with Gotham's filth. Sending killers to prison never made sense to him. He thought it was pointless."

Damian's sharp eyes studied the floor, his thoughts pulling him between both sides. Dick wasn't wrong. Neither was his father. But who was Jason Todd now? The lost boy who came back twisted, or the man chasing some secret goal no one could see but him?

"Maybe his actions tie back to his death," Damian suggested finally, his voice quieter, tinged with a rare hesitation. "Grandfather resurrected him, gave him power. Maybe Jason sees this as his chance to correct what he couldn't before."

Bruce didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the glowing screens, his reflection dimly staring back. "I've considered that," he said finally. "But he hasn't gone after the Joker. Not yet. Instead, he's targeting crime itself. He's trying to position himself as a crime lord—building power, influence. Starting small. Testing the waters."

Dick pushed his hands into his pockets, shaking his head. "If that's really what he's after, we'd be fools to think that's all there is. Jason always has more in mind."

"Whatever his endgame, we'll know eventually," Bruce said, his tone carrying that finality that closed discussions. He turned from the console and adjusted his cufflinks. "That's enough for tonight. I'm heading out."

Damian's eyes narrowed instantly, noticing something off. "And where exactly are you going, father? In a suit. At this time of night."

Bruce paused, glancing between his sons with the faintest flicker of hesitation before turning toward Alfred. The butler appeared with a scarf, draping it carefully around Bruce's neck, adjusting it neatly along the lines of his tailored suit. Bruce cleared his throat. "To a Halloween charity event. Hosted by the mayor."

Dick raised his brows and squinted with suspicion, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Uh-huh. You're not fooling me. You're going on a date, aren't you?"

"I said it's a charity event," Bruce replied in his defense, tone clipped.

"Sure," Dick drawled, folding his arms and leaning back against the console. "You can lie to the kid, but you can't fool me."

Bruce sighed, already regretting saying anything. "Fine. Yes. I'll be attending the event with a date."

"I knew it," Dick said with triumph, his grin widening.

Bruce's brow furrowed. "And how exactly did you figure that out?"

"Easy," Dick said, cutting him off before he could finish. "You only wear that particular cologne when you're going out with a woman."

Bruce shot him a flat glare, one that all but said, this brat knows me too well.

"A date? Who is she?" Damian asked, voice edged with suspicion.

Bruce adjusted his cufflinks, his answer calm but simple. "Her name is Selina."

Damian's brow arched higher.

"Catwoman?" Dick asked, though his tone carried more amusement than shock.

"Yes," Bruce said without hesitation. "Catwoman." He started for the stairs leading up to the manor.

Damian immediately followed. "You're romantically involved with a criminal?"

"Ex-criminal," Bruce corrected firmly. "And it's only a date."

Dick trailed after them, grinning ear to ear. "You know, I get it. This whole mission of ours is lonely as hell. If Selina makes things… less lonely, then hey, maybe it's worth it."

Damian, however, wasn't done. "But father, there are no 'ex-criminals.' Only those who aren't committing crimes at this moment."

Bruce tightened his jaw, refusing to give ground. "She isn't like that anymore."

At the top of the steps, Alfred stood waiting with a full-body mirror he had prepared. Bruce stopped in front of it, reviewing his look one last time, straightening his jacket and tie.

Behind him, Dick wore the kind of expression that screamed he was enjoying every second of this. Bruce glanced his way. "Don't you have something better to do?"

"Nope," Dick answered simply, his smug grin still plastered across his face. "Though I can't help but think… maybe Selina likes you because you're basically the same person. Both Batman and Bruce Wayne."

Bruce narrowed his eyes but didn't respond. Alfred interrupted smoothly, "The flowers are in the car, sir."

As Alfred escorted Bruce outside toward the waiting vehicle, Damian quickened his pace beside him, his voice crisp with disapproval. "I feel the need to remind you of your past choices in women, including—though not limited to—my mother. Not that I am ungrateful, of course. But I insist you use protection and be mindful of your drink—"

"I get it, Damian," Bruce cut in, cutting off the boy's lecture before it could spiral into another tirade.

Dick snickered from behind, calling out, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Bruce slid into the car, Alfred closing the door after him. Through the window, Bruce caught sight of Dick's ever-present smirk as Damian muttered, "We should follow him. Make sure she doesn't try to take advantage of him when his guard is down."

"I strongly advise against it, Master Damian," Alfred said as he began up the manor steps.

"Bruce is more than capable of handling himself when it comes to women," Dick added, strolling back into the manor with his trademark grin.

Damian scowled. "It's Halloween. Shouldn't you be trick-or-treating?" Dick asked as he turned toward the Batcave again, probably preparing for patrol.

Damian gave him a sharp side glance. "Only children with no sense of purpose indulge in such mindless quests for candy."

Dick froze, his grin fading into mock offense as he stared at the boy. He didn't respond, but the look he gave Damian said everything—like the kid had just insulted every childhood memory Dick ever had of trying to feel normal.