Batman turned Scarecrow over to the police that night, alongside Killer Croc—though the latter was barely conscious and in no shape to fight anyone. 

Croc was taken to the GCPD’s underground meta-human containment wing, the one partially funded and engineered by Wayne Enterprises. It was cold, reinforced, and quiet enough that even someone like Croc would be forced to sit still for once.

His injuries were beyond brutal. The inside of his mouth, tongue, and throat looked like they’d been run through a blender. His jaw was a mangled mess—shattered in multiple places but not completely destroyed, thanks to his abnormally dense bone structure. 

He’d sustained a severe concussion too, maybe even internal bleeding in the brain. Still, his skull held together just enough to keep him from dying on the spot. Croc would live, but he’d be out of commission for a long, long time.

When he did wake, he’d be in a world of pain. His jaw would likely heal wrong, misaligned and twisted. His teeth were gone—every last one. His tongue was split, and his once-scaly face was now a shredded, disfigured ruin. His healing factor wasn’t perfect; it would leave him scarred, looking more monstrous than before. 

Ironically, the only reason he wasn’t dead was because the explosive used wasn’t a full grenade. If it had been, his brain would have been blown off.

Before the police even made it down into the sewers, Batman and Robin were down there, combing through the damp tunnels for any sign of what happened to Red Hood and Nightwing. 

Robin’s boots splashed through the murky puddles as he scanned the tunnels, his expression set with stubborn determination.

Nothing was turning up. No tracks, no traceable trail—nothing but the chaos left behind. From what Batman could piece together, the only logical conclusion was grim: Jason had taken Dick.

And then there were the bodies. Or what was left of them. Batman stood silent for a long time in that bunker—his cape brushing against the cold floor as his eyes lingered on the carnage. Scarecrow’s men were scattered across the concrete like broken mannequins. 

Some were missing limbs entirely; others had been torn apart in ways that made it hard to tell where the fight began or ended. A few of them had survived—barely. They’d live, but not as whole men. The ones still breathing were babbling incoherently, eyes wide and trembling. Whatever Scarecrow had done to them really did fuck them up.

Batman said nothing, but his jaw tightened. He’d seen Jason’s handiwork before, but this was something else. And Batman didn’t agree with it—not one bit. 

Seeing the shredded remains of Croc and the dismembered goons only drove the point home. Jason’s war had crossed a line a long time ago, and every time Batman thought he could still reach him, the line just kept getting bloodier.

By the time they finished their search, the bunker was silent again, left for the low hum of leaking pipes and the distant wail of police sirens echoing through the tunnels. Batman knelt briefly, gloved fingers brushing over the pair of Nightwing’s escrima sticks he’d found in the sewers. 

He stared at them for a moment before standing, expression unreadable beneath the cowl. Without another word, he slipped them into his belt and turned toward Robin.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly.

Robin gave one last look at the ruined bunker before following.

They emerged from the sewers under the cover of night, both silent as the Batmobile roared to life. As they drove back toward the cave, neither spoke a word, leaving the task of clean-up to the GCPD.

By the time they reached the Batcave, the silence between them said more than either could.

“Welcome, Master Bruce,” Alfred greeted as Batman stepped out of the Batmobile, his boots landing with that familiar heavy thud on the cold steel floor. “Master Damian.” He gave a short nod in Damian’s direction.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The tension between Bruce and his son was thick enough to feel. Damian stood a few paces behind, his arms crossed, his eyes stern and unflinching, while Bruce’s expression looked hard as stone—jaw set, lips a hard line beneath the shadow of the cowl.

“You disobeyed my orders,” Bruce started, with his voice low but edged with anger. “Then you went behind my back to track a lead on Scarecrow—with Jason.” The moment he said the name, Alfred’s head turned slightly, his attention leaning to the conversation between the two. Bruce didn’t notice; he was too focused on Damian. “What exactly were you hoping to prove?”

“I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines while you take on your major rogues,” Damian shot back, not a hint of regret in his voice.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his breath elaborating his frustration held too long. “I know you want to be part of the action. But when are you going to understand that keeping you out of certain fights is for your safety?” His tone softened slightly before hardening again. “You don’t care, though. You throw yourself right into the storm’s eye every single time.”

Damian’s glare didn’t waver. Apologies weren’t his thing—never had been. He’d rather stand there and take the heat. “So what now?” he asked with a sharp tone. 

“You going to lock me up in the compound again like you did when I first got here? Or maybe throw me in some dungeon this time around?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. His words carried weight on their own. “Despite what you might think of me, I’m your father. Your safety is my responsibility.”

Damian opened his mouth to reply, but Bruce cut him off before he could speak. “You want me to trust you with more responsibility,” he said, stepping closer, his shadow falling across Damian. “Then start by giving me a reason to trust you at all. Trust is earned.”

With that, Bruce brushed past him, the edge of his cape barely missing Damian’s shoulder as he walked toward the main console. The soft hum of the Batcomputer filled the silence, the rhythmic clacking of keys disrupting it as Bruce pulled up new data.

“You had a run-in with Master Jason?” Alfred asked, his tone steady but curious as he followed Bruce with his eyes.

“No,” Bruce replied without looking up. 

“Apparently Damian went to him for help with Scarecrow.” His voice tightened slightly. “It wasn’t a wise decision, but at least he knew not to go after Scarecrow alone. Still, if he’d told me about that third location, Nightwing and I could’ve wrapped this up without the mess Jason left down there.”

His gaze stayed locked on the screen as files and camera grids flickered by.

“Speaking of which,” Alfred said, “where is Master Richard?” His brows lifted in quiet concern. The absence of Nightwing didn’t sit right with him. If Dick wasn’t back yet, he should have at least made contact—or returned to Blüdhaven.

“He’s missing,” Bruce said flatly, pulling a pair of escrima sticks from his belt and placing them on the desk with a soft clink.

“Missing?” Alfred repeated, his voice tightening. He knew that when one of them went missing, it rarely meant something simple.

“Nightwing always scans his suit for planted trackers when he leaves,” Bruce said, tapping at the console again. “Something about privacy.” He let out a slow exhale. “And thanks to that privacy, I can’t track him.”

Alfred leaned slightly forward, watching the screens. “That area did seem to lack camera coverage,” he observed. “But if Scarecrow was captured, then who took him?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just looked up at Alfred, his silence confirming the suspicion already forming in the butler’s mind.

“Jason?” Alfred muttered, his tone part disbelief, part dread. Bruce gave a faint nod.

“But why?” Alfred asked quietly, the confusion in his voice clear. Jason had kept his distance for months. What reason would he have now to take Dick?

Bruce turned toward Damian with a calm but pointed voice. “How did you reach Jason earlier?”

Damian, still standing near the Batmobile’s hatch, looked more irritated than remorseful. “I’ve been trying to reach him again, but his phone’s off.”

“You have his number?” Bruce’s tone dropped lower, eyes narrowing as he faced his son.

“For emergencies,” Damian answered with a shrug. “It’s a burner, so it can’t be traced.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked back to the console. He rested his hands on the desk, fingers lacing together as he leaned forward, lost in thought. His reflection glowed faintly on the glass screen.

“Why would Jason suddenly take Dick hostage?” he muttered under his breath. “He’s been avoiding contact with us all this time.”

“Maybe Dick said something stupid again,” Damian said dryly. “You know how he is—probably pushed one of Jason’s buttons.”

Bruce shot him a sharp look that silenced any follow-up remark. Without another word, he rose from the chair and headed toward the Batmobile. His cape swept past the floor in one clean motion as he prepared to leave again.

Alfred and Damian exchanged a glance, the quiet hum of the cave filling the air once more. The faint echo of Bruce’s footsteps faded into the distance as the Batmobile roared back to life.

He was going after his eldest the old-fashioned way—by tracking him down himself.

– – –

When Jason came to, his vision was a blur of hazy vision and dim yellow light. His head pounded, every heartbeat slamming behind his eyes like a drum. 

It took a moment for him to realize he was lying on a rough, uneven floor, the scent of hay and rust filling his lungs. Wherever he was, it smelled old—like rotting wood, damp soil, and stale air. Probably a cellar. Maybe part of some abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere.

He groaned softly and tried to move, but his body felt heavy, his limbs sluggish and unresponsive. The weight of his helmet pressed against his skull—it was still on, at least—but his muscles screamed in protest when he tried to sit up. That’s when he noticed the cold metal around his throat. A shackle. A thick iron collar, chained to a bolt in the wall.

His breath hitched. He glanced down and saw a tube sticking out of his left arm, taped crudely in place. His sleeve was rolled up, and the tube led to a gallon container that was slowly filling with his own blood.

“What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, his voice dry and hoarse.

Jason yanked the tube out with a wince, the sting snapping him further awake. He rolled down his sleeve and pressed his hand over the puncture, trying to slow the bleeding. His body swayed, dizzy from blood loss. He leaned back against the cold brick wall, taking a second to steady himself.

When he finally looked around, he realized how bad it was. His weapons were gone. His utility belt, both guns, his blades, even the small boot knife he kept for last resorts—stripped away. They’d cleaned him out.

Across the dim room, he spotted another figure lying on the floor, motionless. His heart kicked once in his chest as he squinted through the haze. The blue and black suit was unmistakable.

“Dick…” Jason muttered.

Nightwing was out cold, chained around the neck as he was, head turned to the side. There was a shallow rise and fall to his chest—he was alive, just unconscious. Jason’s pulse steadied a little, though it didn’t stop the anger simmering in his gut. Whoever did this had both of them.

A noise broke the silence—the dull creak of wood, followed by slow, deliberate footsteps descending a staircase. The thudding grew louder with each step, echoing faintly off the stone walls. 

Jason clenched his jaw and forced himself upright, his back pressed against the wall. He could barely keep his balance. His fingers brushed the chain at his neck, testing its tension. If he could lure whoever it was close enough, maybe he could wrap the chain around their throat, then threaten them for the keys.

He wasn’t sure he had the strength to snap a neck in this condition, but he’d sure as hell try.

The door creaked open, light spilling in from above. The figure that appeared at the bottom of the stairs moved slowly, almost casually. 

They wore a black leather biker jacket, the kind that had seen its fair share of fights, and combat pants tucked into heavy boots. But what really caught Jason’s attention was the bandages—white wrappings that covered the person’s entire body, from head to toe. 

Even their face was mummified, except for an opening around the mouth. No slits for eyes. No space for a nose. Just that mouth, painted with a smeared, jagged red smile that stretched too wide. A mockery of the Joker’s grin.

Jason felt his stomach tighten. The thing looked human, but something about it was wrong. Too twisted, yet controlled.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep